


Cool Water

by hello_imasalesman



Series: And, Behold, [2]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: (Specifically the scene in Horse Flesh for Dinner), Canon-Typical Gang Behavior, Canon-Typical Racism, Canon-Typical Violence, Chapter 3: Clemens Point, Established Relationship, Frottage, Horse Flesh for Dinner, M/M, Mild Gore, Mild canon divergence, Missions Gone Wrong, Sequel, tags updated as we go
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2020-01-14
Packaged: 2020-07-08 17:12:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19873159
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hello_imasalesman/pseuds/hello_imasalesman
Summary: “I tell thee.” Quicker than Arthur would think someone of his age could move, the beggar snatches Arthur’s wrist in a brutal grip. “Bethink yourself before taking possession of another man’s horse. For not all will go willingly.”Arthur wrenches his hand back from the man’s startling grasp. Under him, his horse nickers in surprise. If he was younger, he would have yelled at him; might have even hit him back for touching him so. Instead, Arthur glares down at the blind man, spits: “Well, too late for that.”





	1. with the dawn ill wake and yawn

**Author's Note:**

> tags/ ratings will be updated as we go, along with the summary as its very horribly written but I’m also trying not to give away some twists before I even publish them :’)

Arthur can hear Dutch before he’s even entered the clearing at Clemen’s Point; he’s dressing Kieran down again, from the sound of it, voice pitching high and hoarse with the volume of his holler.

His warhorse’s ears pin back against his head, and he diverts their course from the pasture to the camp proper. Arthur dismounts on the furthest edge he can of the camp, without incurring Grimshaw’s wrath. He’s brought back a bounty and a half from his hunt, a buck draped over the back and a turkey tied to his saddle, and hopes it’s enough of an excuse to avoid a cuff to the back of the head, even with his big warhorse toeing the boundaries.

“Fenton! Welcome back!” Hosea’s sitting halfway under a tent, angled towards the light of the sun. Arthur has to tilt his head to see him, without hands to move his hat. “Did you throttle a deer with those big, idiot mitts of yours?”

“I should’ve let them raiders shoot you, if I would have known you’d be ragging me like this.” 

Hosea smirks, “Oh, I’m just teasing you.” He closes the book in his lap, carefully cross his legs to balance his ankle against his knee.

There’s another shout from the pasture. Arthur’s eyebrows furrow, and he uses his head to silently tilt his head back towards it; Hosea sighs heavily in response, shakes his head at Arthur’s unasked question.

“The horse has been giving him problems, and we’re going to be visiting our respective idiot families tomorrow.” He explains, with little fondness, “And you know how he acts when he believes something is actively undermining him.”

“The horse?” Arthur repeats, “Actively undermining him?”

“I would think it’s paranoia if it weren’t so stupid.” Hosea deadpans. He suddenly motions to the buck draped over Arthur’s shoulders. “I’m sure that’s going to be good, though.”

Arthur welcomes the change in conversation. The camp never runs smoothly when Hosea and Dutch are irritated with each other. “Well, I gotta feed the old and sickly, Hosea, you included.” Arthur replies, watching Hosea’s lips pull into a grin. “I don’t know how you made it jumping off that balcony.”

Hosea barks out a laugh. In hindsight, now that bullets aren’t heating the tips of his ears as they narrowly miss his skull, Arthur could possibly admit that it had been a fun excursion; it had been a while since he and Hosea had done a job together, just them, and he hasn’t seen the old man move like that in quite some time.

Though, judging how little he’s seen Hosea move since, he figures he still felt the two-story fall. Hosea’s laughter dissolves into a coughing fit; his eyes are tight with unmistakable pain as he wheezes and breathes in, hunched over his lap. He weakly waves a hand at Arthur— to go, turning slightly from him as he raises a fist to his face and coughs anew.

Arthur would stay, but the warm weight of the buck is draped heavily against his shoulders, and his muscles are starting to protest. “I’ll catch you later, Hosea,” He mutters, somewhat lamely, at a loss for anything else to say. He’s concerned about Hosea, much as anyone else, but the man doesn’t like a fuss about it, and he can respect that. Not much to do to help, besides, especially with a carcass taking up his hands.

Pearson is thankfully at the chuckwagon when he approaches, chopping onions at a steady, learned clip.

“Ah! Mr. Morgan.” Pearson greets him warmly, glancing up from his butcher’s knife. The stag slung over his shoulder pulls a smile across his face, and he starts to make room for it, hurriedly clearing the front table of random detritus for the deer. “Look at that! Between you and Smith, we’ve been eating pretty well since those mountains.”

“Well,” Arthur grunts, strained, as he hefts the carcass off his shoulders onto the table; it rattles under the weight of it, an empty tin can on the edge shaking and falling to the ground. “Just doing my job.”

“Yeah, yeah. Tell that to some of the others here.” Pearson snorts, “Not that, I mean, they’re not saying you’re not doing a great job. It’s just half of them, at least, they don’t even want to pitch in!”

Gesturing at the kill with his knife towards the carcass, Pearson adds, “This, though, this is an effort.”

Arthur regards the praise with disdainful suspicion. “Alright, now, I ain’t Micah, I don’t need fanfare over a damn deer.” He wipes his gloves off on each other. There’s dried blood caked over his palms, flaking off and drifting to the ground like sienna-colored snow at the motion.

Pearson snorts, “I’m just saying.” He inserts his butcher’s knife cleanly into the belly, sawing up and just under the skin, towards the groin. “ _Some_ folks here need to pitch in.”

“What, like Uncle?” Arthur asks. Pearson didn’t complain half as much about Uncle as Arthur thought he should, given how much the man ate. But he was a shameless gossip, and Pearson ate that kind of chatter up when stuck around the tedium of the stew pot and butcher’s block.

Pearson shrugs, cleanly skinning the deer, peeling back the hide as he goes. They sell those when the girls visit town, along with the antlers. They use most everything else. “Sure, sure, Uncle. He could probably do to help out more. But—“ It’s clear from his tone it never was Uncle, shifting into a heated hush, using the motion of yanking the skin off the rest of the way as an excuse to lean in closer to speak, “That Adler woman, you’d think she was doing us all a favor with just her presence!”

Arthur sucks in a breath, lets his sigh rattle out long and slow, watching Pearson pull off the rest of the skin and bring it around to drape over a rack. He had thought separating them would have ended their petty bickering; which, outwardly, it seemed to have, but squabbles of this nature grate on Arthur’s nerves more than they should.

“Oh, you leave Mrs. Adler be, she’s taken a lot of watch shifts.” Arthur says, with little force, though Pearson seems to clam up very quickly, lips pressed in a thin, tight line. He doesn’t even ask Arthur to help him pick up the stag, but he does anyway, seeing the way the man struggles with the bloody carcass half-resting on his gut. It’s at a size that’s awkward for anything less than two people. Arthur grabs the front half of the buck, by the antlers, and Pearson looks immensely grateful as he adjusts his grip.

“Besides,” Arthur grunts, “ain’t Abigail helping you?”

“Oh, she does.” Pearson admits, “She’s a big help. She just doesn’t have the stomach anymore for the butchering, after Jack.” He chuckles a little, breathless, “Mrs. Adler wasn’t bad with the knife.”

Arthur sighs. They bind the hooves up onto the rack, head down, so that the blood will stream downward when Pearson guts and cleans it. “And you want her to have that knife of yours when she’s annoyed with you?”

“Point taken, point taken.” Pearson steps back. There’s a streak of blood now across the front of his tattletale grey shirt. “Besides, she’s off with you all now, isn’t she.”

“Well,” Arthur hesitates. “Wouldn’t say that.” Sadie’s not running with them on stagecoach robberies and debt collecting, but she’s protecting the camp when the others are busy. At least, it gives less excuses for some of the other folk not to go out and earn their keep, when they have fewer shifts at guard.

In the lull of their conversation, Arthur can hear Dutch again, shouting still over the neat sounds of Pearson’s knife slicing through tendons. A Kieran sounding squawk. Silence. Arthur tries to tear his attention away, back to Pearson. It doesn’t bother him none, watching him butcher, but there’s nothing particularly enthralling about it either. “She’s doing her part. Worry more about some who do a hell of a lot less and weren’t living married and true on a farm less than a few months ago before a bunch of O’Driscolls came and turned her life around.”

“Alright,” Pearson grumbles, clearly taking the hint that Arthur’s not going to speak any ill of her. “Alright.” He follows Arthur’s gaze, towards the pasture. “Speaking of— you know what’s happening over there?”

Arthur shrugs. “Much as you. Sure you got a better view of it.”

Pearson laughs. “I’ve been trying not to overhear.”

As if that was possible, at the volume Dutch speaks. Arthur huffs, looks away. “That’s a first.”

He shoots Arthur a glare. “Well, I don’t want to get roped into that. I’m not one for horses. Not my type of beast at all.” Pearson starts to busy himself with gutting the strung up deer, adding, offhandedly over his shoulder, “They’re afraid of water, you know.”

“Sure.” Arthur doesn’t care enough to argue over the fears and desires of horses with a man who flinches every time he needs someone’s help to get saddled atop one; less so because any mention of a body of water by Pearson inevitably leads to a longwinded conversation about his years (or year, or three months, depending on how much rum was in Pearson and how many girls nearby were listening) in the Navy out on the seas. He finds his gaze being pulled away from Pearson’s occasional glances, out towards the horses.

“Oh, I’m serious,” Pearson continues, having not caught the hint, turned away from Arthur’s uninterested grimace. “All of ‘em are naturally afraid of water. You ever hear of anyone trying to move their horses across the sea? They don’t— well, alright, catch you later?”

Arthur’s already walking away from Pearson, and he barely manages a farewell wave in the cook’s direction as he trudges back and behind the food wagon. The chickens noisily cluck and scatter around his legs as he pushes past the coop, their squawking commotion only second to the shouting from the pasture.

A month ago, the Count had been shot by Raiders, died fighting for breath in Kieran’s shaking arms. Dutch tasked his prodigal son and their newly inducted stableboy into finding a replacement; the snow-white Arabian they had roped down at Lake Isabella had been free, but not without a myriad of problems that came with taming any wild horse, multiplied by her own orneriness.

“Were you not espousing on your skills with horses?” Arthur can finally make out the exact words Dutch is shouting as he approaches the field, “Or are the _steeds_ of the O’Driscoll boys as small minded as the men who ride them?”

Arthur can’t quash the heavy sigh before it streams out, loud and hissing from his nose, his mouth clamped too firmly to let anything louder past.

Dutch is animated, in one of those moods of his. Had Dutch always yelled like this? Or was it his nerves of the day? Kieran flinches from him, turning his face away from his quivering mustache and shouted words, though he has the decency not to cower. He still speaks to his feet, though.

“N-no, no, sir—“

“Right, Arthur?” Dutch speaks over Kieran.

Arthur hadn’t realized his presence had been known yet. He stops in his tracks, keeps his face impassive. “Don’t mind me.” Arthur holds his hands up placatingly.

“I’ll mind what I like.” Dutch snaps, though it seems the sound of his own voice startles him back, reigning in his volatile annoyance as he fidgets and fixes the edge of his vest.

“Sure.” Arthur doesn’t even recall what Dutch wants him to agree to or not.

It doesn’t go unnoticed by Dutch, his own face pinching as he looks over at Arthur. His hair looks slightly less kept than usual, sleeves rolled up. There’s a smear of dirt against the cuff, grass stuck in his arm hair and along his vest— he’d been thrown, or at the very least, had fallen.

“Sure?” Dutch repeats.

“Give her some time, Dutch,” Arthur offers, his voice faltering under Dutch’s withering look, “She just came from the mountains wild as anything. Something like her...”

The Arabian is practically prancing, tossing her head back and forth as she high-steps away from Dutch, just out of reach of Kieran. She stops a few feet shy of them, staring over her shoulder at them both with a snort, tail flicking.

“She’s a brat,” Arthur mutters. He looks away from her. From the corner of his eye, he can see her shuffle around to face them, slowly. “But so was the Count. You know how he never let anyone ride him.” He gestures over at the Arabian. Dutch’s face is softening. Doesn’t quite melt, but a thaw has taken hold of his features, “You know how big the personalities get for horses like these.”

Dutch chuckles. It starts terse, petering off into something akin to humor, like Dutch had to drag it out from himself. Kieran is shrinking away from him. “True.” He tilts his head, “That was very—“ He twists his hand through the air, as if trying to grab the word just on the tip of his tongue, “Very, just very verbose of you, son! You’re quite the animal philosopher today.”

Arthur snorts, shakes his head. “Wouldn’t call it that.”

“No?” When he approaches, Arthur can really see how dark the space is under his eyes, how tired he looks.

Arthur gestures towards the horse. “You asked what I thought.” Arthur shrugs, starting to downplay his opinion, “That’s why I’m a fan of bigger horses.”

Dutch halts in front of him, overcome with a benevolent smile. “Big, dumb shires work for some. But you’re right,” Dutch’s hand clasps Arthur’s shoulder, squeezing. Arthur can’t tell if he’s trying to be patronizing. His smiles and tones and tilts of the head are all balanced right on the peripheral, settling on making Arthur feel small and stupid regardless. He doesn’t hold Dutch’s gaze. “I shouldn’t be so harsh. Can’t rush perfection.”

Dutch turns over his shoulder. “Ain’t that right, O’Driscoll? You could hurry it up, though.”

Arthur half-smiles, despite himself, more of a grimace as he stares off just past them both so he doesn’t have to make meaningful eye contact with either of them. Dutch pats his arm, twice, and on the last one he squeezes. 

Arthur rubs at his arm, watching him leave before turning back to Kieran.

There’s a wounded look in his eyes, balefully staring up at Arthur.

“You come to gang up on me too?”

“Nah.” Arthur hums. “I know it ain’t your fault none. She’s a handful. I’m telling you, she needs a set of spurs.”

Kieran scoffs, “She don’t need no marks on her flank. She just— just...”

“If not, then,” Arthur fills in where Kieran stutters off, “What’s wrong with her?”

“I don’t know.” Kieran sighs tersely, “She just...!” He motions at her, turns and clenches his fists by his side, glaring hard at Arthur. He’s fully worked up, lathered himself into a gesturing and stammering outburst, “She, She— She just don’t wanna listen to him! I don’t know why! She listens just fine to me.” He’s pacing in a tight circle, his voice rising just enough that the nearby horses are edging away from them. He points at Arthur. “She even gives _you_ an ear, sometimes.”

“Sometimes.” Arthur chuckles, at that, but it’s short and humorless. He says it as if he’s that bad with horses; he’s tamed a few, he’s a decent ride. Kieran pivots and Arthur follows him as he stomps through the pasture, the horses parting around them with flicking tails and harrumphing snorts.

The Arabian is where she always ends up— by the far post, with Branwen and his warhorse, grazing side-by-side. Kieran doesn’t slow his pace. He gets this kind of firm fire in his eyes, especially now that he’s actively training a horse, given just enough freedom to do work past that of a simple grunt. It’s one of the few times he’s self-assured enough to be confident. 

Kieran clicks his tongue to the back of his teeth loudly. Branwen’s head rises. “Not you—“ And he clicks again, more urgent, and the Arabian finally swivels to fix him with a baleful stare. Arthur hates to even imagine it, but it seems like she’s doing it on purpose, pretending not to even hear him until he’s squared up in front of her, fists on his hips.

“She’s a menace.” Kieran says, tempering the squawk in his voice. The Arabian leans in to snuffle and snort phlegm all over the top of his hat. Kieran winces, holding onto the brim as she roughly noses across his head, unaware of her own strength.

“Big menace, there,” Arthur agrees, as she playfully lips at the crown of Kieran’s hat. It casts a shadow over his face, the stern glare he levels at the Arabian. Arthur would never admit it, but it’s an attractive look for him; the more confidence he gains, the more Arthur admires the personality unearthed from the depths of the kind of man he has to be for survival.

Kieran sighs, shooting Arthur a look. Arthur shrugs. Kieran’s soft when it comes to horses, same as he is when it comes to dogs. Kieran’s shoulders sag. His stern expression melts away, free hand reaching up to stroke her neck. Off to the side, Branwen snorts and huffs.

“Just wish she’d listen, is all.” Kieran murmurs, downright morose. “She rides beautiful when she does.”

“Sure does.” Arthur admits, and when he reaches out, she lets him stroke a hand down her nose— he’s seen her already nip at others when they’ve tried the same. 

While Hosea was usually more in tune with horses than Dutch was, somehow able to calm big, mean shires and small, flighty mares alike, Dutch had an affinity for them as well, as much as Arthur did. He knew the best way to approach a strange horse, the best way to distract them with an apple while rummaging in overflowing saddlebags. Him and the Count had a relationship that felt like something otherworldly. Rarely would Dutch have to control the Count by voice, but he could spend an entire ride with Arthur talking away while he directed via leg and seat and nothing more. He was no stranger to horses.

Dutch, the Arabian can tolerate, but not when under any duress. And like most newly tamed horses, duress ranged wildly to being ridden too long to having a surprise coyote burst from the bush and skitter by.

Arthur rubs the Arabian’s muzzle. He can feel Kieran’s stare against the side of his head, his gaze lingering until Arthur turns to look at him. Kieran turns away, huffing under his breath and walking off the opposite way. The Arabian snorts and pulls her head back as Kieran retreats, and Arthur retracts his hand before she has any second decisions.

“Dutch says he and Hosea are going out tomorrow.” Kieran doesn’t have the heart to pretend he’s bringing this up casually, clearly, because he’s not masking the worry creasing his forehead, pacing aimlessly across the field. “I’m just hoping she’ll behave.”

“Sure she will.” Arthur half-heartedly reassures, watching Kieran. He keeps touching down at nearby posts, checking saddles and hung bridles; everything’s already in its place, but he fidgets with everything, clearly looking for a distraction. Arthur sighs, a long, thin stream from his nose, hooking his thumbs into the belt loops of his pants.

“Will you quit it?”

“Quit— quit what?” Kieran stutters.

“Fussin’.” Arthur frowns. It’s not productive. Kieran halts in his step, though an anxious undercurrent runs through him, body trembling. Arthur sighs. “She’ll be fine. You got her, after all.”

Kieran flashes Arthur fleeting smile. “Well... I would say I had some help.”

“You can say, ‘specially since that help saved your ass in Valentine.”

“Hey!” As Kieran’s tone grows more playful, his voice lowers. Not enough to be a conscious whisper, but just enough to keep his words a little muffled if someone else were to walk by. “I held my own.”

Arthur leans in a little closer, huffing with amusement. “Mm-hmm.” Kieran has this goofy smile on his face, hesitantly blooming in front of him, and Arthur feels his mouth go dry. “Something like that.”

“Hey, I ain’t pointing out how on the last time we fished, you didn’t catch anything.”

Arthur chuckles, and wets his lips, “Well,” And he’s drawn in closer, as his voice dips even more. “Wasn’t really paying much attention to the fish.”

Kieran pinkens at the memory. “You sure weren’t.”

What a big bad outlaw he is, getting a little thrill at just barely toeing the line of impropriety, but it settles warm in his body like a slug of whiskey. It doesn’t take much to rile Kieran up, though.

“Speak— Speaking of,” Kieran’s throat catches on the words before they can come out, his confidence dipping fast, “What brings you out here?”

Arthur chuckles. “I’m guessing you didn’t notice.” What with Dutch shouting his ear off for damn near fifteen minutes. Kieran blanches. Arthur doesn’t leave him long, to let his anxieties stir up: “I came in a bit ago. Just went hunting, brought back a buck. Have to get the turkey still left and the saddle off him.” He doesn’t mean to sound boastful, but something about it does, to his ears, and he’s embarrassed for himself, bashfully rubbing at the back of his neck as he hooks a thumb towards his warhorse.

Kieran clears his throat, “I can’t believe I missed that. Dutch was really laying into me. You always catch the biggest bucks.”

“Rack’s pretty decent.” Arthur admits. Kieran doesn’t seem to be disgusted at his hubris. In fact, his face is so genuinely bright with interest that Arthur feels like he’s got some sort of spotlight thrust onto him. It’s too blinding not to look away. “Wanna give me a hand?”

“S-sure.”

—

Kieran wakes up to Hosea jostling him awake by a heavy hand on his shoulder. He startles to his feet, bleary-eyed and wobbling. It’s still dark out, predawn colors just peeking out over the horizon across the lake.

He tacks up Silver Dollar first, and then the Arabian, the new Count. Hosea and Dutch talk in front of Kieran as if he wasn’t really there. Like the way adults talk around children, knowing they don’t completely understand. Kieran’s been overhearing about going-ons around camp. He saw Arthur and Dutch (and Bill, who had leveled him the kind of stare, swaggering into camp, that made his stomach drop to his boots) stride into Clemen’s with sheriff’s stars pinned to their breast. He knows they were given to them by a Sheriff Gray, and now they’re each going on a visit to opposing plantations, the Grays and Braitwaithes, respectively.

He tries not to eavesdrop much, it being rude, and also because he’d rather get them out of the Point and onto the road sooner than later. Hosea doesn’t seem to mind him much more than most people seemed to mind Kieran— too forgettable and unassuming to expend any energy beyond banal pleasantries— but even in the early morning, Dutch is radiating energy, his voice and mannerisms like a man who’s been awake for many hours before. He just might have been.

Dutch heaves himself up onto the Arabian; her flank ripples with a shiver, back hooves stomping. Swaying, Dutch orientates himself in the saddle, just thrown off enough by her movement to look awkward.

“O’Driscoll? What is this horse doing?” His voice is mostly even, though his brow is faintly lined.

“I’m— I’m sure she’s just surprised she’s up and ready to go so early, is all.”

“Is that it? Is that _all_?” His voice cracks on the last word.

“I-I, well—“

“I’ve given you a considerable amount of time to prove yourself.” Dutch lays into him with a commandeering snarl, mustache quivering. Hosea looks, maybe, just a touch apologetic, but mostly impatient to leave. He stares out towards the road, and Silver Dollar paws restless at the ground. “You know, Arthur and Bill and John spoke highly of you after you lead them up to that cabin, but maybe they were too kind in their assessment, if you can’t make yourself useful.” 

Kieran finds himself unable to tear his gaze away from Dutch’s piercing stare. He withers under it. Dutch doesn’t seem to let up until Kieran is properly squirming, which seems to be embarrassingly quick, but he’s sure he doesn’t have much pride left, nowadays, to feel any more embarrassment than what he was constantly used to.

“We’re not a charity, Mr. Duffy.”

“Y- yes, sir, of course, Mr. Van der Linde, sir.” Kieran mutters to his boots. The tops are peeling from the sole, mud and manure slicked up the sides.

Dutch’s lips twitch. He turns towards Hosea, guiding the Arabian by the reins to twist as well. She obeys. “Let’s head on out, old friend.”

Hosea and Dutch leave before the sun even rises. Kieran can hear Lenny on his red-eye shift call good-bye to them as they disappear down the wooded path.

It’s earlier than most are awake. And earlier than Arthur wakes; it’s not that Kieran means to keep his schedule like this, but Arthur never wakes before the sun unless he’s drinking the night before. (And then, he awakens parched and awfully irritable, and barely stays awake for any amount of time before falling back asleep and sleeping through until noon.) He can see him from the scout tent, sleeping in his cot.

Kieran doesn’t mean to keep his schedule. Doesn’t mean to look, and watch the way his chest rises and steadily falls, his hands folded neatly on top, the way they tuck a man into a coffin.

Since he’s already up, he gets his chores done early, baling hay and hauling water from the lake. By the time he’s finished, the morning has really started, the sounds of the camp rousing mixing in with the soft calls of the songbirds in the trees.

The girls have gathered this early around the fire, a change of scenery from their wagonside cots and to finish one of the first pots of coffee Pearson has brewed for the day. Kieran’s relieved to see it’s them and not any of the other members around the fire. They don’t seem to mind him as much as the others. Most of the men are still awfully nasty towards him; Bill is overbearing, Javier spits at his boots, Micah feigns striking him just to see him flinch.

But Karen, and Tilly, and Mary-Beth— they’re alright, and at least let him sit around even if they don’t always include him in any conversations around the morning fire. Karen even gives him a greeting nod, and Mary-Beth and Tilly follow with near synchronized “Morning, Kieran,” as he shuffles in and sits down on a log.

“Mornin’, all.” Kieran busies himself with pouring a cup of coffee from the carafe, the tin hot under his fingers.

Karen turns back to the girls, leaning in conspiratorially. “As I was saying, I love watching the hangings.”

“What?” Mary-Beth sputters, “Really?”

“Well,” Karen prefaces, “It does depend on how fine looking the man being hung is.”

Mary-Beth sharply inhales, and bites her lip so hard it must surely hurt, trying to quash the grin that’s splitting her face in two. “Ms. Karen Jones!”

“Oh, don’t act so prim—“ Karen leans forward, grinning salaciously, “You either, Tilly!” Tilly hasn’t looked up from her needlework once, though she raises her eyebrows and shakes her head, a gentle _tut tut_ of her tongue as her only ribbing reply to Karen. “I don’t mind going to see a handsome man get hung. It’s practically a civic duty, giving them poor dumbasses one last good look at a real woman ‘fore they go...”

“Karen,” Mary-Beth says again, laughing, “You’re somethin’ else.”

Karen wiggles her fingers, and casual as you please tucks them between her breasts; Kieran averts his eyes as she pulls out a small flask from inbetween, and pours at least three fingers worth of whiskey into her morning mug of coffee. The smell of it this early in the morning almost turns Kieran’s stomach. “I got a point.”

“I hate watching them string people up, too grim for me.” Tilly mutters, still focused on the stitching in her lap.

“Could be us one day.” Kieran agrees, weakly. The girls turn to look at him, synchronized swiveling.

“Well, you’re no fun.”

“He’s only saying that cause he did get caught by Mr. Morgan.”

“I’m not ever going to get caught.” Mary-Beth says, half-convinced, though her smile is soft. “Besides, we don’t do anything that bad. I mean, you don’t, either.” She adds, to Kieran, “You ain’t out there with the rest of them.”

“Alright, alright,” Karen scoffs. “Even if you hate the act, you have to love the crowd. One of the easiest crowds you can pickpocket.”

Tilly relinquishes a conciliatory shrug. Mary-Beth seems more thoughtfully agreeable; she purses her lips, her brows knotting together as she nods along to Karen.

Karen smiles slyly, “Don’t hurt that most people aren’t paying attention to their pockets. Even the sheriffs. You ain’t going to look away when they start jackknifing their feet like they do.”

“Best time to get them is if the outlaw is prattling on about something before they hit the lever.” Tilly pipes up.

“Ooh, yeah, then people are trying to listen in.” Mary-Beth adds, “Except, if someone next to you starts to heckle, it might draw stares, an’ then you might get caught red-handed.”

The conversation dissolves fast into the best way to pickpocket a hangman’s crowd. Sometimes, with how sweet they act, he forgets that the girls are just as wily as any of the boys. That seemed to be half of their act, he supposed; he has no doubt any of them would be able to swindle him if he was just some random mark on the street. Kieran sips at his coffee, lets their talk fall into a pleasant buzz in the background.

“Good morning, ladies.”

“Mornin’, Bill.”

Kieran shoots up like he’s been bitten. Blame it on the waking hours he had this morning, not to make himself scarce before some of the others showed up for coffee. But it’s too late now, Bill Williamson leaning over Tilly and Mary-Beth to grab the fireside percolator. He straightens out and looks at Kieran with a sneer as he pours himself a cup.

“What’re you doin’, O’Driscoll?”

“N-nothin’. I gotta get back to the horses—“

“Leaving already? The horses are _fine_ , Duffy.” Bill sets the carafe down. A hush has gone over the girls, with Tilly glaring hard at Bill, and Mary-Beth looking particularly uncomfortable. “You can sit down.”

Kieran swallows. “I-I think I’ll stand.”

“Go on,” Bill’s teeth flash, “Sit down.”

“I’m fine.” Kieran says it, a little slower this time, as something warm and strange prickles up the back of his neck.

Bill stands and steps forward and Kieran realizes— it’s anger, indignant, creeping high up from his gut and sending his whole body buzzing with shaking nerves. But he’s already decided isn’t going to take it. Like a flash of lightning, it’s a split second decision, standing with his arms ramrod straight and fists clenched at his side. 

“Bill Williamson, will you leave that poor boy alone?” Karen snipes. Tilly mutters an annoyed agreement under her breath.

Bill ignores her. “What’re you doin’, O’Driscoll?” Bill growls, taking another step. 

“I ain’t— I ain’t doing anything, just standing.”

“You best sit down.”

Kieran squares his shoulders. He can hear himself swallow over the thick lump forming in his throat, just barely under the sound of Bill’s heavy, angry breathing. “Think I’ll stay standing.” He schools his voice, tampering down the stammer, even as it squawks high and thin.

Bill takes another step forward.

From the corner of his eye, Kieran can see a figure moving towards him. Striding quick and purposeful and with his jaw set, is Arthur Morgan; in the seconds in-between, Kieran imagines Arthur will be grabbing him by the collar and dragging him off, none-too-gentle. And his thoughts keep following that path as Arthur’s hand closes tight around Kieran’s shoulder—

And he’s pushing Kieran back, behind him. Kieran nearly trips over his own two feet. It looks something akin to the way bucks’ antlers clash together, with Arthur stepping forward and into Bill until their shoulders and chest bump. Arthur’s taller than Bill, and it’s sudden enough that all Bill can do is stumble backwards, his eyes wide and fixated on Arthur.

“What the hell, Morgan?” Bill yips. His stare deviates between the two of them. Mary-Beth murmurs something soft to Karen, and Tilly looks up at Arthur. 

Arthur arms are half-raised. This isn’t them drunk and play-fighting, rambunctious but mostly harmless back-and-forth. He looks like he’s going to swing. He clenches his fists once, twice, exhaling harsh and fast out of his nose before he turns on his heel. And this time he is focused on Kieran, and only Kieran, eyes dark like thunder as he grabs him by the shoulder for real this time and hauls him away from the campfire, towards the pasture.

Arthur walks him faster than his feet can manage, grappling by his shoulder with one hand and clutching tight to the nape of his neck with the other; Kieran stumbles over himself, almost has to clamber for Arthur’s side before he falls. Almost. Arthur’s fingers dig into his shoulder, warningly.

“You’re an absolute, entire fool.” Arthur spits under his breath. The horses nervously part around them. Kieran tugs against Arthur’s grip; he lets go, nearly tosses Kieran as he stumbles and twists to face him, catching himself by the skin of his hands against a stump to keep from completely falling. Kieran hasn’t seen him this furious in a while, written in the slope of his shoulder, the lines on his forehead. “Why are you bidding Bill on like that? With Hosea and Dutch gone? He gets a certain way when drunk and you might have a real problem on your hands.”

“Like what?” Kieran keeps his voice at a hush, though it’s a strain with his indignation bleeding through at the edges. His palms burn as he points back towards the campfire. Arthur’s eyes narrow. “What’s he gonna do, Arthur? Shoot me? Try an’— try and geld me again or something!”

“Maybe, you damned fool!” Arthur accidentally shouts, flinches just as sudden at the realization and throws a quick glance over his shoulder. Kieran feels his stomach roil. “Maybe,” He continues, much quieter, though still urgent, “You don’t think he’s threatened some of the younger ones like that when they give him lip service? Lenny ‘n Sean, they got more sense than you and can actually fight!”

“I can fight!”

“You can’t fight worth shit.”

Kieran stands there, body tense. Arthur’s breath is audible, short, angry puffs. For a moment, Kieran is half tempted to swing for his nose. He hates having to shrink and skulk to survive. It wears on a man; he does good by them, and it’s only been in the last month where Kieran could manage to sleep soundly through the night without the fear of Bill or Sadie an O’Driscoll waking him with a knife to the gut.

But though he’s sure, maybe, that he could take a scuffle with Bill, if he was smart about it— Kieran’s more than sure Arthur would put him in his place. And what’s worst, even with the silence stretching in-between them, Kieran realizes Arthur wouldn’t want to. A man, as angry as he is, and yet staring at him with eyes like that—

It makes Kieran’s gut clutch. It’s because of him he’s been able to find rest. It’s been years since he’s been able to sleep in the way Arthur affords him in the crook of his arms, the moments in-between they’ve snatched together in this rough world. 

It’s as if Arthur knows his eyes are speaking much louder than he would ever have the wherewithal to voice, because he looks towards his feet even as he steps into Kieran’s space. “Listen,” Arthur’s voice rolls, touches his elbow soft and gentle. “I ain’t trying to— ” Arthur sighs thinly. “Just... you don’t know him as well as you think you do. Alright? Trust me on that.” Arthur steps back, to a respectable distance, clearing his throat. “He’s not a monster, but he ain’t a good man, either.”

Kieran shoves his hands into the pockets of his work pants. “And you are a good man, Arthur Morgan?”

Arthur tilts his hat down so Kieran can’t see the expression flashing surprised and unguarded across his face, scuffing his boots against the ground. “Now, I never said that.”

He glances back up at Kieran. There’s a ghost of something there that he hides under his hands, wiping at his mouth. “But even if you can fight, against all proof I’ve seen— I ain’t going to tolerate fighting like that, not with Dutch and Hosea gone.”

There’s another reason, underlying Arthur’s words: he would have to get involved, and it clearly would not be on Bill’s behalf. He would tear Bill down if he had to, piece by piece. Kieran is sure Bill has a hunch about them already now, if he hadn’t before.

“I can fight my own f-fights.” Kieran says as evenly as he can, but the sentence is stained at the end with emotion, his voice quavering.

“Sure.” Arthur nods, ducks his head. “I know.”

But he’ll still fight for him.The same way he fights and breaks and bleeds for anyone he’s close to. That’s the only way he knows how.

—

Arthur doesn’t hear until the next day what happened. That the Arabian had bucked Dutch in front of the manor. No real, actual harm done to Dutch, other than a bruised tailbone and a bruised ego. According to Hosea, barely managing to keep his eyes from rolling, the mental toll was unfathomable.

He avoids Dutch. As if he’ll be blamed. But the pasture is quiet, and still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I owe so many people comments so I want to apologize ahead of time if I don’t get to yours until like... a month :’’’’) but i read and appreciate and love them all!! So right now I don’t know exactly how long this will be. I’m hoping to keep it shorter but we all know how that goes right. 
> 
> as always— thanks for reading! Kudos, comments, bookmarks, all are much loved. hit me up on tumblr @hello-imasalesman or twitter @cheapcheapfaker


	2. just one thing more

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dutch corners him, and asks him, yet again, for a horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some canon-typical racism, just that moment in ‘Horse Flesh for Dinner’ from the Braithwaite

Dutch corners him, and asks him, yet again, for a horse.

More specifically: horses, multiple horses. It’s another step in his and Hosea’s grand scheme in plundering all of the riches from these Southern morons until they strike gold; the Braithwaites have horses, an entire stable full of the kinds of horses men like them could make some good money on. Dutch has this information on good authority from Mr. Gray himself. Arthur bites his tongue.

This doesn’t feel like some grand plan. It feels like revenge for the kind of humiliation he received yesterday, getting tossed in front of that big old plantation manor and having a bunch of hick guards guffaw over some dirt on the seat of his pants. But Dutch always said he didn’t do revenge, not for the Calandar brothers, not for going ass over teakettle in front of Braithwaite manor, and certainly not because of any dead daddy having long since rot in some Pennsylvanian field, so Arthur isn’t sure what else to call it other than a job. He leaves Arthur to return back to his tent, where Micah is skulking along the shadows like a rat. Arthur’s got a bad taste in his mouth, and he spits to the ground before turning.

Marston’s on this one, along with Javier, which is a solid team. He picks on John for being a dumbass and a flake, but when he puts his head down, he accomplishes things. Javier is a dead eye of a shot and always keeps his cool.

They converse in low tones over the rudimentary map Hosea and Dutch had outlined the Braithwaite plantation spread across the table. Arthur stares off over their heads. They’re bickering about the amount of firepower they should bring and the slyest way to get it past the guards. It’s hard to pay attention. He’s feeling a little sour about what is amounting to be some sort of revenge, and besides, his eyes keep getting caught by Kieran in the field. It’s strange, because he’s not a lady, obviously— he’s not pretty, he’s not delicate, and he’s not even quite sure if he’s attractive. But maybe it’s because he’s never really thought hard on what that is to begin with. Sure, Mary was pretty, and Abigail, and plenty of others—

But then Kieran pauses in his work over a shovel, leaning heavily against it before stretching his arm up towards the heavens, and his shirt rises just so as he does so, dragged and bunched from the taut lines of his suspenders. And he’s got a dusting of hair down his belly, disappearing under the waistband of his pants, and Arthur isn’t rightly sure where his mind’s gone, sometimes.

John and Javier’s voices drone on next to him. Arthur watches as Kieran’s arms fall, turns his back to them as he continues on with his work.

“Why don’t we bring Kieran?”

He doesn’t realize he had voiced it aloud until their silence startles his attention back to the table. John and Javier are frowning at him, Javier with his arms crossed and John with his arms braced against the table.

“Kieran?” Marston frowns, then tilts his head, his eyebrows raising. “Actually, couldn’t hurt. He’ll know if they’re good, right?”

“They’re gonna be good no matter what, it’s that rich family that owns them.” Javier says, clearly suspicious, but he doesn’t press against Kieran tagging along. He trusts Dutch, and by association, Arthur, especially when under Dutch’s guidance. “Is he getting a cut?”

“No. Well—“ Arthur’s head tilts, back and forth, as he reconsiders, “If anything, it’ll come out of mine.” He pauses, “I don’t want us to get there and grab the wrong horses. I don’t know much about breeding and what sells, and I know you two know less. Especially you, Marston—“

“You always think you’re so smart, Arthur. I know horses!”

“Right.” Javier laughs, “You know horses.”

“I do!”

Arthur snorts, looking to Javier, “Ask Marston for milk and he wouldn’t know which animal to go to at a farm.”

Javier’s grin is wide, eyebrows shooting up. “And he’d be grabbing the stallion if he did.”

“Aw, shut up!” John scoffs. Arthur laughs, and Javier does too, enough that John gives him a little shove before turning to stomp off towards the munitions on the back of Arthur’s wagon. 

Arthur hadn’t asked Kieran if he wanted to go, but it’s a safe assumption he won’t second guess tagging along. When the three round on the pasture, he’s brushing the horses over. Arthur whistles to catch his attention.

Kieran pauses, already setting aside his brush and rolling up his sleeves. Moving towards the saddles thrown over their posts, he replies, “I’ll get your horses ready—“

“And Branwen,” Arthur interrupts. “Get her ready, too.”

He stops, startled. “A-alright, Mr. Morgan,” Kieran nods, eyes searching Arthur’s face, then the others.

“You’re gonna ride with us, to the Braithwaites south a little ways. We’re looking at some horses.”

“And stealing a few,” John pipes up.

“And stealing a few.” Arthur agrees, folding his arms over his chest, “So we’re going to need your expertise.”

Kieran looks up at Arthur, his gaze darting wild-eyed between him, John and Javier; and then he nods, rapid-fire, rushing to tack the horses. Crossing his arms, Javier scoffs under his breath, shooting John a disparaging glare. Noncommittally, he shrugs back. Arthur shoots glares between them both, an inferred _knock it off_. It’s a silent moment that goes entirely over Kieran’s head, who’s buzzing about in an effort to get all of the horses tacked and fit for the road.

Javier ducks in, his back to Arthur as he speaks to John. It’s too quiet for Arthur to hear from where he’s standing, and he’s not nosy enough to move close, especially if Javier’s talking like that on purpose. Boaz is finished first, and Old Boy second, Arthur nearly having his own horse dressed by the time Kieran’s tightened the strap on John’s Hungarian halfbred.

John nods, and Javier steps back, walking towards his horse. John catches Arthur’s eye, “Javier and I will go on up ahead, and then you two meet us at the Grays’. We’ll ride to the Braithwaites’ from there.”

“Sounds good,” Arthur calls. They mount and Arthur raises his hand in a wave as they depart from the pasture and down the path out of Clemens. When he turns, Kieran is staring at him with wide eyes.

“What...?” He begins.

“I figured it was about time you come out with us.” Arthur says. A million micro expressions flitter across his face; it ends with a shaky, bared tooth grin that he imagines is supposed to be friendly, but all Arthur gets from him is unease. “Take a break from shoveling horse shit and all.”

“I don’t just shovel horse shit.” Kieran mumbles, tilting his hat low. He resumes tending to the horses, hauling Branwen’s saddle from the rack. “I mean— y-yeah, it ain’t a problem.”

“Don’t be nervous.” Arthur scoffs, following him as he moves, “It won’t be dangerous, besides. We’re going to run the horses out the back, where there’re less guards. We just need you to make sure we get the best ones.”

Kieran grunts as he throws the saddle over Branwen’s back; the mare stomps and snorts. “Well... you trust I’ll pick the right ones?”

“Why not? You planning on steering us wrong?”

“No!” Kieran gives him a wounded look. “I’m...” He looks a little bashful, tilting his face away from Arthur. “I’m actually flattered y’think I could help.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.” Arthur rumbles, his voice rolling low and gravelly in his throat. He doesn’t mean to; there’s something in the way red blotches up the skin of his throat and across his cheeks that makes Arthur feel hot himself.

“And before we head on out...”

As much as Dutch and Hosea think that these families are a bunch of slobbering buffoons, Arthur had seen the Braithwaite mansion, the kinds of clothes those folks wore; they may be stupid, but they had money, and Kieran’s dressed worse than some of the farmhands’ whipping boys he’s seen in the area. He doesn’t have to get him as well-dressed as Javier’s default, but a spit-shine will do.

He pulls Kieran to his tent. As thin as Arthur is, he’s still bigger and broader than Kieran by a mile. The contents of his trunk that actually fit are slim pickings, but he does manage to find a newer, nearly white shirt that looks a bit better than his torn one, and presentable under a long coat.

He averts his eyes politely as Kieran changes. “How’s it look?” He asks the ground.

“Better.” Kieran says. Arthur raises his eyes. He does, honestly, peering curiously into the little mirror Arthur has on the top of his washbasin, tipping it this way and that to try and glimpse the entirety of his outfit. “Much better. I’ll give it back same way you gave it to me.”

Arthur moves behind Kieran, plucking Kieran’s hat from the post of his cot and settling it on his head. Kieran’s lips twitch in a fond smile as he adjusts it. “I’d say keep it, but it still don’t fit you right. You oughta put in for a new set next time Pearson or Uncle goes into town.”

His fingers still on the brim. “I don’t...” He mumbles, lets his arms fall limply to his side, “I ain’t got any money, Arthur.”

“Well... maybe you can keep these, then, ‘til you do.” He’s not going to offend the man, offer to buy his things for him like that. Kieran’s gaze shifts. “Besides, that’s why you’re coming with us. You’ll make something, hopefully.”

“Hopefully?” Kieran’s looking back into the mirror, and if Arthur wasn’t mistaken, he’s squaring his jaw a bit. “I’ll get us the best damn horses they have.”

Arthur grins, and for a moment, he lets himself clap Kieran on the shoulder, his fingers pressing into the sinewy muscle there. “I’m holding you to that, Duffy.”

It’s a warm day out, as always, but the horses are well rested and keep up a good pace without fuss towards Rhodes. By the time they arrive at the Grays’ plantation, John and Javier are waiting on Old Boy and Boaz at the end of the road, in a shady spot near the entrance. Their horses are grazing idly. Arthur squints at them from down the path.

“Thought we was meeting Mr. Gray?” He calls.

John nudges Old Boy onto the path. They walk side-by-side in twos, John at Arthur’s and Javier keeping pace with Kieran behind. John doesn’t seem to notice, but Javier does a double-take at Kieran, eyeing his clothes up and down. If Kieran notices, its not reflecting in his body language; he just seems to be keeping his eyes down, quiet. Any fire he had before they left has been well-tempered. “We did already. Didn’t think it was necessary for you two to come on up, as well. Might overwhelm the guy.” John says it with an eye roll that assures Arthur he wouldn’t have wanted to meet him, besides. “You already met his son.”

“True.” Arthur doesn’t care much, either way. He’s already met the missus Braithwaite, and that was enough of Rhode’s aristocracy for him. And better to keep the sight of his face few and far between all of these families they’re trying to swindle. “Well, what’d he say, then?”

John shrugs, “Just a lot of nonsense about hard work, how the Braithwaites are degenerates and English and all that.”

“Called ‘em ‘that hag and her inbred sons’.” Javier adds.

John barks out a disbelieving laugh. “These families, they’re something else, alright. I don’t know how they hate each other after all this time. I mean, Mr. Gray, that man, he said one of ‘em killed his uncle or something. But they’ve been goin’ at it for a lot longer than that. It just comes across as a lot of bullshit.”

“Probably started like that. Someone killing someone else, revenging something or another. All that nonsense just snowballs.” Arthur pauses. He glances at John, “You know, Dutch mentioned something like that when he told me about this plan. That these folk killed his daddy and what not.”

“Huh.” Is John’s only reply. He looks thoughtful. It’s not a great look on him.

“Yeah...” Arthur trails off, “Dutch seem alright to you?”

“Dutch is Dutch. We’ve all been under a lot of stress lately. He gets tired like the rest of us.”

“What’re you two saying?” Javier balks at the very idea, clears his throat. He nearly looks like he’s about to angle his horse up towards them, but the path isn’t big enough for three wide and Arthur’s warhorse gives an ornery turn when Boaz inches too near his hindquarters. Javier falls back, frowning. “What’re you two even talking about?”

“I’m just saying,” John turns in his saddle to look at Javier, “Dutch, I think he oughta take a break sometime soon. What with all these plans, and that Ms. O’Shea—“

“You’ve been with Dutch long enough, Marston. You should know to trust him.”

“And I _do_ trust him, _Escuella_ , but trust ain’t got nothing to do with not getting any rest, and that Micah always in his ear.”

“Micah Bell.” Arthur says with enough distaste to curdle milk.

“He’s a piece of work, you know?” Javier agrees.

“Micah’s an asshole.” Kieran suddenly speaks up, and John and Javier nearly turn on a swivel to look at him, as if they had forgotten he was walking with him, even being just a few feet away. He wilts, but only a little. “H-he... he ain’t a nice man.”

“You can say that again.”

“No need to repeat the obvious.” Javier deadpans back to John.

John scoffs, “Y’know what I mean. Why you gotta be contrary?”

“Anyway,” Arthur interrupts with a bit of force in his voice, “Mr. Gray, what’d he say about the horses?”

“Oh, right,” John frowns, “Said we’d get about five thousand for ‘em all, give or take. They’re real good, apparently—“

“Spare a dollar for a blind man?”

Their talking hadn’t afforded them the best attention towards the road, but still, it seems to take everyone less aback seeing the hermit on the side of the road seemingly appear from thin air than to hear Kieran Duffy speak up. He’s a shriveled looking old man, swaddled in more clothing than necessary for the weather, hunch-backed under the mound of cloth. He shakes a tin cup in his hands, “A dollar, good sirs? Just a dollar?”

He’s closest to John, on his side of the road, and Marston rolls his eyes, moving on silently. The man toddles a little closer to the road, balancing on his large walking stick, “Come now. A dollar for your future?”

John snorts, throwing a glance towards them all. When Arthur looks at Kieran, he seems nervous.

Javier glares affronted at John. “What, you think you’re above begging?”

“I ain’t said that!” John snaps, “Just that it’s crazy to think people can tell the future, is all.”

“That’s because you’re small minded. People have the sight; my grandmother used to read bones more accurate than any almanac...”

Javier and John dissolve into their own petty back-and-forth, squabbling as Arthur eases his warhorse next to the man. He doesn’t seem to flinch away from the horses’ tall, powerful body, but maybe he can’t feel his presence, seeing as he can’t see it; Arthur is sure he’s not one of those false beggars, because his eyes are murkier than brackish water, clouded over like marbles beneath the dirt caked across his face.

The blind man smiles, and turns his face upwards, towards Arthur and the sun. “Spare a dollar and a moment, sir? I have much to tell you.” The blind man holds out his spindly arm with cup outstretched; it rattles when he shakes it, though not with more than a few cents, surely.

Arthur frowns. He turns back to the group. “C’mon,” Arthur calls, and his voice cuts through their squabbling like a knife through hot butter. He looks down at the blind man. His eyes are staring off somewhere past his horse, face placid as a lake. There’s something in him that sits uneasy with Arthur, and he turns his horse away towards the center of the road. “We need to get going.”

Kieran nods in anxious agreement. Arthur kicks his horse off into a brisk pace, fast enough that they can’t talk over the din of hooves. They start down the road, though Javier hangs behind, easing his horse slowly on. He is the one to tip money into his cup, just far enough that they couldn’t hear what the man tells him. Arthur glances over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of Javier’s face scrunching before turning his horse back to the path.

“What’d he say?” Arthur yells over the horses when Javier catches back up.

“Nothing...” Javier shakes his head, his expression pinched into something foul, tilting the brim of his bowler across his face. “Nothing important.”

They ride on the Braithwaites manor, along the path lined with big, heavy trees, the kind that have been rooted to the spot for centuries strong. He’s been here before with Hosea, and though maybe it felt different because the old man loved to crack jokes on a job, there’s something different this time. He doesn’t much like being on these old plantations. The fact that they can devote this much land to an entryway, to a pathway, speaks of how much money they have, never-mind the looming manor at the end dripping with decadence. But there’s a heaviness here, and it’s not just the summer air sticking thick in his lungs; it’s a pervasive sense of dread, a prickling of things hidden and unsaid as the horses trot down the path. There’s a quiet that can’t just be the heavy branches of the trees dipping in the mid afternoon sun. Even the birds in the stone basins are subdued, just barely splashing as they preen themselves and scatter before the four of them can even get close. They leave for the trees without a sound, just the beat of wings in stale air.

Arthur allows his war horse to slow, and Boaz moves up in the formation, behind John and Old Boy. Kieran sidles up next to him.

“Arthur, Arthur,” He whispers urgently, leaning in, “Uh, y’know, that price Mr. Marston quoted— five thousand? Now, I’m not saying they ain’t good horses, but—“

Arthur raises a hand. They’re getting too close now, and Kieran’s mouth shuts tight in a thin line. There are two guards at the front of the gates, rifles slung in their arms. They look interested in this posse in front of them, but not worried. Four of them or not, they’d have to be awfully stupid to try and storm a plantation at two in the afternoon from the front gates. They did make sure to leave near the hottest time of the day, when most would be seeking shelter indoors or in the shade. Easiest time to get away.

“Alright,” The leftmost one calls when they’re ten feet out, shifts his stance to plant his feet wide, “This is private property, folks. I ask you state your purpose and leave.”

“My name’s Jim Milton.” John calls, “We’re, uh, looking to invest some money, and we’re interested in horses.” John says, only a half-lie.

Arthur tries to temper the eye-roll that comes naturally when John speaks. Marston loves to act like he’s on the vaudeville stage with the kind of stories he likes to tell in order to bluff his way through things; the sly tongue of Hosea with the subtlety of clown makeup slapped on top. “People next town over were saying that the stables don’t have anything decent, compared to what you have. We just came into a bit of money, y’know. This here’s my stable master.”

The guards look thoroughly unimpressed as John thumbs towards Kieran’s blank expression, so taken aback all he does is nod like his head was on a pole.

“Th-that’s me.” Kieran croaks, but it’s so quiet Arthur isn’t sure the guards even heard him.

Either way, it works: “Sure, alright, alright.” The leftmost one speaks again as the other lowers his rifle. They step away from the gate. “The stables are that way.”

They angle their horses down the road, John leading, followed by Kieran, Javier, and himself taking up the rear. Arthur can feel their eyes on the back of his neck. As soon as they’re out of earshot, Kieran leans forward.

“I’m a stable master, now?” He whispers, in that strained, half-shouting way. Kieran’s entire body is rigid on top of Branwen, like he’s ready to bolt. He’s barely able to play himself, let alone act in some other role.

“Why else are you here?” John drawls in much more conversational tones, looking easily over his shoulder at him.

“I—“ Kieran balks, and then looks down at the ground and frowns. “Y-you’re right, I mean.” He huffs, “Guess I just wanted some warning I gotta play some part.”

“Why don’t you play as someone with brains in that skull of yours?” Javier quips.

“All of you,” Arthur growls, keeps his voice low. “Hush up and focus. We get in, we get out the back, quick and easy.” Even at their languid pace, they’re fast approaching the stables, the smell of manure carrying downwind towards them and the lake. Arthur’s glad they hadn’t even entertained just the two of them stealing a horse from the Braithwaites back when Dutch needed a new horse; it’s a big stable, and while he wouldn’t consider the plantation heavily guarded, there are enough men carrying guns around that it would have been a fool’s errand.

They leave their horses outside, but don’t hitch them; there’s grass nearby, and they don’t plan on taking long enough to give them an opportunity to wander. Arthur swings his legs over his warhorse, lands in the dirt next to Kieran. John and Javier enter first. Before Kieran can follow, Arthur gives his shoulder a squeeze; his whole body startles under his hand, but when he whips around to see who it is, his wide eyes go soft.

Arthur gives him a reassuring little nod, and Kieran nods in turn, takes in a deep breath and squares his shoulders. When he enters the stable, he has a little swagger in his step.

“— and, speak of the devil, there he is, my stablemaster!” John says, holding out his arm towards Kieran. When he walks forward, he grabs Kieran by the arm, and from the looks of his grip it’s more than tight, fingers digging into the sleeve of his coat.

“Alright,” Says a man leaning against one of the swinging doors to the individual stall. He tilts his chin towards Arthur. “And who’s he?”

“A friend.” John says before Arthur can speak up, “You have to understand, the amount of money we’re lookin’ to invest here, well— it’s best to travel with trusted company in those sorts of situations, wouldn’t you agree?”

The grooms men’s eyes settle for one moment longer than Arthur, but he seems satisfied by the answer as he drags his gaze away to focus back on John. “Alright, alright. And you said Ms. Braithwaite sent you?”

“She sure did.” John repeats, and there’s a testiness running underneath his words, a fidgety reassurance that does nothing of the sort. Arthur bites his tongue. He’s no Hosea, not yet.

The groomsman frowns, “Listen... I don’t think we have the horses you need, you and your scar face and your greaser buddy—“

John lets out a low _woah_ under his breath, and from the corner of his eyes Arthur can see Javier tense and Keiran’s jaw go slack. The reaction doesn’t seem to trip the man up in the least: “I don’t deal with you types, don’t deal with officials—“

“We ain’t officials.” Kieran speaks up. Arthur and John and Javier turn to him, startled.

Kieran swallows down his nerves, glancing between the three, and then stares hard at the unimpressed Braithwaite groomsmen. “We’re looking on making a good investment.” He raises his eyebrows, and for a wild moment Arthur actually believes Kieran can play the part: a confident stable master that reigns over a menageries’ worth of equines, instead of the oft-abused shit-mucker of a handful of ragtag horses owned by an even more ragtag group of outlaws. “And I think y’all can help us, maybe. Some of these horses are worth our time.”

Kieran has already wandered towards the stalls lined up against the far wall, and the groom is pulled away from eyeballing John and Javier to turn to him. He’s looking thoughtful up at the horses, walking down the line with a loose-hipped swagger.

“Well- these here are the studs, available for purchase or for working, if thats what you’re interested in. What is it you boys are interested in?”

“We represent a stable and stud farm, um, Saratoga. Unofficially.” Arthur pipes up. 

The one in front of the groomsman is a beautiful beast, a well-groomed and sleekly muscled black Thoroughbred. “Well, then, studs, we have a few prized ones.” He shifts his focus pointedly from Arthur to Kieran, gesturing towards the horse closest to them. When he approaches the stall gate, the horse approaches eagerly.

“This here’s Cerberus. Cerberus is a real reliable stud. Fathered many a race winner.” When he extends his hand, the horse meets his knuckles with the pink of his nose, nostrils flared and snorting phlegm over the man’s hand.

He moves to the next stall, and Kieran follows, attention rapt. Though this time he’s not acting; he seems genuinely interested in each horses’ name and story, looking them over with a keen eye. “This one’s Old Faithful. He was a champion, briefly, until he hurt his leg. Didn’t you, boy?” He runs a hand down the muzzle of the dapple chestnut Turkoman. “Amazing runner though. He’s up for sale for a decent price. Probably sell him to you if you made the right offer.”

And the next. The next is a white Arabian, beautiful, but not cold; melted in the heat of Lemoyne, and he’s docile and unblinking as a hand is stroked down the length of his snout. “And this here is old Father Time, my favorite horse. His coat might be a little thin for them Saratoga winters, but bred right, he’ll produce some good winners.”

Kieran’s brow furrows. “Oh, c’mon now...” He puts a little steel in his voice, even though it warbles, traversing slowly across the length of the stable. Arthur’s not sure if he’s doing it on purpose, but it focuses the man on him, following right by his side as he continues to walk down the stalls, “These ain’t your best horses. Wouldn’t pay... pay more than ten dollars for any of these nags here!”

Behind him, John raises his eyebrows, throwing Arthur a look: the O’Driscoll’s got fire. Arthur doesn’t know why that makes his lips curl upward like a prideful idiot.

The stablehand blanches. “Ten dollars? These... they ain’t that bad.”

“Y-yeah!” Kieran insists. “If Master Milton here is going to invest, he needs to invest in real horses, race horses. We’re not interested in...” He gestures at the horses, his other hand resting on a cocked hip, and he swings around to face the man, “In work horses, some ladies pony. We need racing horses, horses we can breed.”

“These ain’t women’s horses.” The groom replies testily, and as he speaks his voice slowly rises, “Listen, sir, if you’re going to insult me an’ my horses, you and your friends over here, well then, you can just—“

Arthur is swift; before his voice can raise to a shout, he crosses the length of the stable in two steps and throws a bulky arm around the stablehand’s neck, wrenches him around. With his back to the rest of them, his focus on Kieran, he never sees it coming until his arm is around his neck. It’s flesh, muscle and sinew, and even still, the man only has one moment to wetly gurgle before his wind pipe is crushed and something cracks, relenting to the immense pressure. Kieran hitches a noticeable gasp, sucks air in sharp between his teeth and flinches back against the stall door with a thud of his back and palms against the wood, as if he was next after Arthur was finished. 

The horse in the stall behind him flusters at the noise, half-rearing in panic, and the chain reaction is instantaneous among them as the faint smell of death seeps into the air, the noticeable spasms of the man in Arthur’s arms as he starts to drown within himself.

The groomsman’s eyes are still wide and glassy as he falls from Arthur’s arms to the ground in a boneless heap. Arthur stares at Kieran as he does so; he flinches and looks away. The stallion behind him whinnies anxious and fearful, tossing his head.

“Uh huh? Greaser, huh?” Javier spits at the corpse.

Arthur doesn’t have the time to ask Kieran about his reaction, the way he flinchingly skirts past both him and the body. The horses’ eyes are all whites, flared nostrils and tossing heads; when Javier moves towards the stable door of the black thoroughbred, he screams high and terrified and it spurs them all to start to panic in earnest.

Arthur curses, fumbling with the bandana around his neck. “Alright, c’mon, bandanas on, don’t need nobody recognizing us. Let’s get the hell out of here—“

“Leave— leave that one.” Kieran speaks up, his voice noticeably shaking, pointing to the horse closest to Marston, the Turkoman. That one the groomsman had earlier mentioned was lame, though he still spoke highly of it; that had been the reason they brought Kieran, though, not to waste their time and energy. “He’s not gonna get anything without paper work, won’t be worth much more than glue.”

Kieran almost looks surprised when John just nods and shuts the stall gate, moving on to the next horse. The white Arabian’s neck is sigmoid, back arched, ears alert. His pupils drown in the sea of his white eyes. He is beautiful in his terror, poised like a memorial statue; John struggles to pull the horse out, his calming words ineffective.

“Let’s tether these to Javier’s and Kieran’s horse.” Arthur speaks up, darting around the stable to grab one of the horses the groomsman hadn’t mentioned before his untimely end. It’s a mustang, and though he’s a little rowdy, it only takes a few soothing mutters to quiet him and lead him out.

With the four of them, they pull out a horse each, and even in their reluctance manage to herd them all outside. Their own horses are alert at the noise, waiting by the gate. “Marston, you ride point. I’ll cover up the back. If there’s any problems... “

He looks over the men, “We regroup at Clemen’s Cove.”

They tie the horses firmly and saddle up. They leave the gate, angling towards an exit through the back. Almost immediately, Javier stops, and Kieran’s eyes go wide.

“What are you doing?!”

“Shit—“ Arthur hisses under his bandana at the man clambering at the far fence; he’s so flustered he’s having trouble even opening the gate to get through, and ends up hopping it as they turn their horses away from the pathway through the back.

Arthur twists, and shouts, “Get going, you two!” at Kieran and Javier. There are men approaching. He pulls his Lancaster from the side of his saddle. Next to him, he can hear John swear, the sound of him pulling his pistols from his holsters. Arthur spurs his horse down the path, John throwing Old Boy into a hard gallop to get ahead of Javier and Kieran and their near herd of horses.

“Stop! I said stop!”

And then, “We’re being robbed!”

The Braithwaite guards come out from the side of the house, the fields, shooting downwind towards them. Arthur focuses, raises his Lancaster up once, twice, squeezing the trigger in quick succession. Both shots are true, and John takes out the other next to him.

He recognizes the two guards from the front— the ones that had seen their faces— and he makes sure to put a bullet between the eyes of both, watching their heads explode in a mix of bone and brain matter and shrapnel.

The hanging boughs of the trees blend together as they gallop down the long entryway path. With eight horses total, it’s a deafening noise, a practical stampede; there are Braithwaite men on horses, but nothing larger to stop their way, no carts or Gatling guns he’s seen some of the Raiders employ before.

“Let’s try and lose them in the trees!” John calls.

Arthur leans in low against his warhorse, holding white knuckled onto his rifle, his thighs gripping tight to his flank. They turn left through the brush. Behind them are shouts, gun shots, but none seem to come close. Arthur’s pulse thunders in his ears. If they circle around the woods, take the lowlands away from the path towards the north, and then maybe—

It’s the white Arabian who breaks free, his lead snapping from the middle of the rope; weak craftsmanship, nothing done on their end, though it doesn’t lessen the disappointment and panic lurching hot up Arthur’s throat at the realization. 

“One of the stallions—!” Kieran shouts.

Arthur swears something colorful. Before he can turn, John’s spurring Old Boy into a hard gallop past them.

“I got him!” Marston shouts hoarsely over the din, leaving them in the dust. “Y’all go on ahead!”

Javier turns. “Come on!”

A bullet whizzes by. Arthur curses again, bends himself low against his horse and digs his spurs hard into his flank. It’s no good that the horse escaped, but better to split up, besides, give John a way to slip out and then regroup with them later. Arthur twists in his saddle, puts another bullet into the man at their heels; two shots in the shoulder that throw him back off his horse and into the dirt, and Arthur’s already turned back on his horse to ride him harder to see if the mans trampled by his own or not.

“Do you see any more of them?”

“No,” Arthur shouts, “Quick, let’s try and get to Clemen’s Cove before any of the rest come along.”

They ride the horses hard until they reach the path, and then there’s no choice but to ride calmly, unless they want to bring attention to themselves. It’s quiet this time of day in Lemoyne; most have gone in to seek the shade, and the sun is beating down so hot the only things out seem to be the bugs buzzing lowly in the grass. Underneath his legs, his horses’ ribs expand, contract with its breathing. Arthur pulls his bandana up to swipe at the sweat beading from the brim of his hat down his forehead.

“Well, that could have gone smoother.” Javier sighs.

“That could be on my gravestone.” Arthur frowns, looking at them both. Kieran’s shoulders are shaking. He glances over at Javier. 

“What about John...?”

“He knows where to meet us.” Arthur answers, before Javier. “Let’s get these sold, then we can get that one. But better we get rid of them sooner than later.”

“Clemen’s Cove is this way.” Javier agrees. Arthur knows where they are; they’re not far. He can see the lake from where they are, shimmering off across the horizon.

It was Hosea who had arranged this fence, like he always did; he personally wasn’t excited that they had set up shop so close to their own camp, but Hosea had said the man had been apparently operating there long before the gang had moved in, and probably still would be once they plundered their Southern gold and left.

Any ease from nearly being at the finish line drops off as soon as the field comes into view. “Thought there was only one?” Arthur asks Javier. He can clearly see two figures in the field, resting against the rubble of some civil war relic left to rot.

“I don’t know.” Javier hisses in reply.

“Arthur,” Kieran says, low and cautious, “These men don’t look like the type to pay five thousand for horses.”

Arthur says nothing, presses his lips in a thin line, but Kieran’s words speak to the slowly sinking feeling in his gut that he’s right.

The two men are leaned up against a rudimentary stone fence. They’ve been watching them as soon as they came up over the horizon down the path, that’s for sure, squinting under the sun.

“What you boys want?”

Arthur frowns, “Heard you paid good prices for horses.”

“Oh, we’ll buy more or less anything, pop.” They’re young, though surely not young enough to go off at the mouth like that, calling Arthur _pop_ — they’re both dressed in clothes that had seen better days, dirt and grass stained. The one sitting on the fence carries himself with more haughtiness that a man Arthur could easily fit his fist around the neck of should warrant.

“That so?”

“Sure, pop.” Clay pushes off from the fence, steps towards them. He can see now that its not just rubble; the rocks have been moved around, a rickety gate near them. It wouldn’t keep much out or in, but a perfect place to temporarily store horses before moving, somewhere they didn’t have to own and faded into the background as another loss to the post-war reconstruction. “I’m Clay Davies, that’s my brother, Clive.”

Clive ambles around, leans against the fence, his head bobbling in agreement to his brother’s point. He waves towards them, slightly slack jawed.

“We’re twins.”

“Can see the resemblance.” Arthur says unkindly.

Clay’s responding smile is more of a grimace. Naming as he goes, Arthur points between them: “Kieran, Javier, and myself, Arthur.”

Clay walks up to them with his thumbs in the belt loops of his pants. “You’re funny.” He says to Arthur, laughs and turns to his brother, “He’s funny, ain’t he?” And then he turns back. “Clive don’t talk. We’re twins, but I was born first... he came out all yellow and black, but he’s okay.” Clay smiles, his lips pulling wide under his mustache. Arthur says nothing. Neither do Kieran or Javier.

Clive picks up the ledger resting on the fence, and Clay snatches it away from his brother’s grasp, ignoring his sad look as he walks back to the horses. They’re calm now, at least, grazing at the long grass of the field.

“Yeah, I know these horses.”

Kieran’s face falls. Arthur’s heart sinks.

“They ain’t yours. But I like ya...” And he turns, a big shit-eating grin on his face, “And I’ll give ya, I can give you six hundred and fifty for these horses.”

Javier scoffs in the back of his throat. Arthur bristles. “We were told five-thousand.”

“And I was told that the moon was made of ladies’ tears!” Clay replies, holding his hands out, gesturing towards the sky with his ledger, and he turns around to walk back towards his brother. “Only it ain’t true. Not one little bit.”

Clive fumbles with the mechanism of the knapsack on his side, but he manages to unhook it before Clay reaches him. He holds it out for his brother to rifle through. “Now, I ain’t got more than seven hundred on me. You want it, or you want to run those fellers into town?” And he looks at them, all three, smiling especially smug as his eyes settle on Javier, “And maybe someone there’ll hang you.”

Javier scowls.

Arthur shakes his head, “We’re gonna need more than that.”

“I ain’t got no more money, pop.”

Clay throws the wad of cash their way. Arthur catches it against his chest. He clutches it so hard in his grasp for a moment he thinks the paper may tear under his fingers. “Here. Take it, or leave it.”

He wants to shout and spit, but the only thought quickly tattooing a thudding headache into his mind is the goddamn foolishness of John Marston. Five-thousand dollars. Hustling horses off your sworn enemy was an expensive job, unless you swindled some fools to do it for you for seven hundred instead. “We’ve got one more horse coming.” Arthur says, barely keeps the venom from his voice, his teeth clenched so tight.

“Well, I may be able to pay another two hundred for a horse of the same quality.”

Arthur glares over at him. “Thought you said you didn’t have no more money.”

Clay smiles. “Sure don’t.” And he laughs, pacing back around, this time waving Clive up and towards his side. Kieran hesitates to, looking searchingly at Arthur before he does, but he hands over the stolen stallion’s leads to the brother; for Javier, bitter-faced and brooding, it takes a jerky nod of Arthur’s head before he tosses the leads into Clive’s arms, who scrambles to grasp them before they fall.“Ain’t no one round here got five thousand dollars, boys... but nice meeting you.”

They pull the horses around. Arthur makes a sound of disgust in his throat, turns himself and the warhorse away. Clive waves as they leave. Clay’s grin is wide and bright in the sun beating down, nigh reflective. “Bring us that, uh, last horse soon! We’re going to be leaving here way before sundown.” He calls.

“Yeah, yeah.” Arthur mutters. Maybe John had misheard, regrouped at the Point instead of the Cove with the horse. “We’ll be right back.”

Arthur and Kieran and Javier ride slow into Clemen’s Point, taking it easy on the exhausted horses. Arthur lets Javier pass, keeping pace with Branwen, though he tries not to make it too obvious he’s riding side-by-side with the O’Driscoll. Arthur’s nerves are still shot, adrenaline sending a tremor down his leg that’s making it clench and tremble bad enough to annoy his warhorse. It’s even worse knowing that their stolen horses are sitting in the field just past the woods, past their camp. Seven-hundred dollars for a four man job. He’s so mad he could spit—

Kieran sucks in a breath. Arthur follows his line of sight. It’s John, and the white Braithwaite Arabian— and Dutch, stroking a hand down his mane. As Arthur dismounts his horse, their Arabian breezes past the others, not even giving Dutch and the new stallion a sideways glance as she approaches their horses to snort and nip at each other.

Arthur clears his throat, and it feels like he’s choking, taking in a rough breath that he coughs out, his eyes watering as his throat constricts.

“Arthur!” Dutch doesn’t look at him. He’s too enamored with the horse, and with Marston, who he turns to as he speaks, “See what John brought me? From those Braithewaites, too!” And he barks out a pleased, vindictive laugh, grabbing John’s forearm with a shake. The Arabian, the new white Arabian stallion, is docile standing by their side, looking blankly out over the pasture. “He’s a beauty, John, look at that. You’ve done well, son. You’ve done well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) 
> 
> thank you so much for the warm welcome to this sequel!! I’m hoping to keep pace with an update every ~2 weeks, considering the chapters are usually p hefty.
> 
> Thanks for reading, comments, kudos, bookmarks... I really appreciate each and every one! Kind of excited to see where people think this is going, because I’m really hoping to surprise (in a good way!)


	3. devil, not a man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> rating bump from T to M

“It’s like you’ve been avoiding me, son.”

“I’ve been busy.” Arthur says, and it’s not a lie. He’s been hunting for the camp with Charles, taking odd jobs around the area as they present themselves. He’s made some money, though not as much as he likes— never as much as he’d like.

Mostly, though, he’s just become sicker and sicker of Rhodes, of Lemoyne. Hard not to after he tracked down that medicine man’s carriage, or pried the nailed shut door off a destitute man’s house only to find his dirty secrets in the cobwebs of his unpaid past.

Dutch has been about as unbearable as the heat with Micah Bell hanging around his tent like a mosquito. He seems to know Arthur won’t approach him with that man, so he’s swatted him off to God knows where.

Earning money, hopefully, from how thin the funds have been stretched as of late. Dutch thumbs a few of the dirty coins in the box before closing the lid. “I know you’re busy. That’s not what I said.” Dutch motions for Arthur to follow him, and he does, away from his tent. “What I said is it seems like—“

“I know, I know.” Arthur interrupts. He’s being pedantic. Dutch is leading him to the pasture, passing a dark glance over his shoulder. Arthur frowns. “You’ve seemed busy, too.”

Dutch turns away before he laughs, no doubt to conceal his expression, deep and throaty and knowing. His arguments with Molly have been increasing in occurrence and volume lately. There’s no point in pretending they can’t hear it, the same as how nobody pretends much not to see Swanson’s problems or Karen and Sean carrying on with each other.

(Though, the latter was much harder to ignore. Not because of the noises they made, though they weren’t shy in that regard when drunk. But mostly it was the resulting shouting and carrying on from John the following mornings, having woken up in a mess he hadn’t realized he had laid in the fog of the night before’s stupor. Sean was at least smart enough to do these things in John’s tent instead of Arthur’s, so Arthur found it funny, especially when John boxed Sean around the ears after.)

Most wouldn’t mention much to Dutch directly, but then again, he’s not most— and he’s not even being forthright, not really. Even Hosea doesn’t fight with Dutch like that. Not anymore. There’s too much tangled up between them for that, from what he’s been able to gather. But he’s always just been the son looking in on that relationship from faraway; he only gathers what he knows from bits of whispered conversations snatched from the night, pointed comments and tired reassurances dripping with unsaid meaning.

“What’d you need me for?”

Dutch’s face alights. “What don’t I need you for?” He asks, sardonically self-aware as he crosses the pasture. “Nothing much, this time. If anything, this is a treat for you; just a ride wherever you’d like to go. You can take a jaunt to the city, if you’d like, maybe some stable east.”

Arthur stops in his tracks. Dutch settles himself in front of the Braithwaites’ Arabian, smoothing a hand down its flank.

“You want me to sell him?”

“ _Him_?” Dutch laughs, “No, not him. Not this one.” Dutch smiles, but it falters at Arthur’s rigid stare. “The other one, Arthur. The wild one. Not this one.”

“So you’re just gonna keep this horse?” Arthur hisses incredulously, “Every Braithwaite in town will be after you for that!”

“Nonsense. Hosea is taking care of the Braithwaites now.”

“That don’t mean they won’t see you in town!”

“When’s the last time I’ve been in town, Arthur?”

“I don’t—“ Arthur frowns, turns his face. “I don’t know, Dutch, but I don’t think its smart parading _their_ god damn horse around in their town.”

“Well, it’s the Grays’ town,” he says with a terse chuckle, then adds, “Which makes it our town.” He pats the flank of the Arabian, and the horse’s skin shivers and ripples under his hand. “I wouldn’t have to take this one in, besides, if you had just gotten a better horse for me.” Before Arthur can speak up, Dutch is speaking over: “That’s not your fault, son. It happens. You and that O’Driscoll boy, you tried your best, I suppose.”

Arthur’s nose wrinkles. “That’s—“

“Don’t be jealous of John, Arthur. Ain’t becoming for men like us.”

“ _Jealous_? Of John?” Arthur laughs meanly, “Right, you’re right. Who wouldn’t be jealous of John Marston, brain half-eaten by wolves, little simperin’ Johnny Marston.” _Who wouldn’t want to leave for a year, maybe more,_ Arthur almost says, because he knows the kind of hurt it would inflict. Hopes it would cut to the quick, the way John’s leaving had affected him, and still does. But he can’t voice something like that, not really. He would never mean it.

Dutch’s face is hard. “You want me to say it?”

“Say what? Been talking an awful lot without saying much of anything, really.”

There are lines under Dutch’s eyes from age, dark circles from lack of sleep, from the stress. Something darker still flits over his features, as if he was really considering saying something irreversible, mustache twitching with the curl of his lip— but he’s never been a stupid man. He pulls back, diverts: “You’re acting like this over a horse? A horse?”

“I ain’t acting like nothing—“ Arthur stops with a near-growl, before he talks himself into a circle in his anger, “It’s the principal of it, Dutch. This is sloppy. These are the kinds of mistakes we can’t afford right now.”

“I think what we can afford is a free horse and selling of that thing—“ Dutch gestures to the wild Arabian, who grazes ignorant of the conversation. “That can’t be tamed!”

Arthur throws up his hands. “I don’t care about the damn horse. They’re going to find out. We shoulda sold it, along with the others. We’re gonna be run out again, just like what happened at Horseshoe, just like Blackwater—“

“Son,” Dutch interrupts forcefully. Audibly, Arthur’s mouth snaps shut. Dutch moves into his space the way a circus trainer moves to a lion; confident he won’t be bit. And he’s not, even when he rests his hand impossibly heavy on Arthur’s shoulder, curls his fingers in a hard warning into the meat of him. “We will be gone before they ever realize it’s us. We will have their gold, and their horses, and hell—“ He laughs, terse and just a little forced between his teeth, “Maybe even their women, the way these sorts of things seem to go in this yokel little town. We’re going to be fine.”

His fingers curl into Arthur’s work shirt. He thumbs the material, as if appraising it; Arthur knows he’s thinking he hasn’t seen it before, and Dutch would be right. A new shirt feels silly now, even if his last had been falling apart at the seams, even if he’s tithed more than his share in the box. Even unsaid, guilt gnaws at the edges of him.

“You need to trust me. I know things—“

His voice lowers, “Well, lately, Arthur, things have been hard. They’ve been hard on us all, but I know it’s been real hard on you. Shaking your confidence in me. But I need you to trust me, remember how good we’ve had it before. It’ll get back to that, I swear on it, swear on my life.”

Arthur’s shoulders slump under the weight of Dutch’s hand. His big palms slide to the sides of his shoulders, a consoling squeeze. He is not fifteen anymore, and the gesture feels hollow, even with the steady earnestness of Dutch’s voice, the low, soothing tone as he leans into his space to lower his voice even more. “And I need you to be strong for me, you understand that? If some of the others see you getting into this kind of doubt— well, you’re my best worker, Arthur, you know that, you’ve been with us the longest, Hosea and I. They call you all Dutch’s boys for a reason, but what would it be without you, son? My first?”

Arthur’s throat constricts. “Naw. It ain’t like that...” He mumbles, chagrined, stares at his boots and the mud and the horse shit caked up around the toe. 

Dutch pulls back, genial one more,“Now do me a favor, and sell this horse for me.” Arthur looks up at him, and Dutch smiles, “Alright?”

Arthur nods. “Yeah, Dutch.”

“Alright. Good.”

Arthur watches Dutch go only so far, walking back to his tent where Arthur can make out the outline of Micah skulking, before he turns towards Iron Lake. He’s not surprised to see Kieran standing by the trees, very pointedly avoiding looking towards Arthur. Describing it as ‘snooping’ feels harsh, but it wouldn’t be far off the mark. He’s clearly sticking to the shadows. He can’t blame him.

“You comin’ out, O’Driscoll?” Arthur calls.

“Don’t call me that— and I ain’t hiding.”

“Just about looks it.”

Kieran frowns.

“Don’t take this out on me...” He says, steadfast at first, though by the end of the sentence his resolved has cracked along with his voice. He averts his eyes downward. Of course, he must have overheard most of his conversation with Dutch, if not all of it. They weren't exactly subtle in their squabbling. “Alright?”

Arthur sighs, long and suffering. “I ain’t—“ He grunts, “It’s not you.”

Kieran looks— sad. Not pitying, but understanding. “I know.”

He knows Kieran doesn’t mean it. He has the kind of honest face that gets him in trouble, unbeknownst to himself. Arthur has half a mind to mention that lopsided smile and soft eyes of his is probably one of the reasons he seems awfully punchable to a lot of people, but he doesn’t want to take out his general annoyance on Kieran. Arthur’s skin itches, prickled over with subdued rage. Arthur fumbles for some cigarettes in his satchel. It only takes nearly dropping it before he steels his nerves and lights the damn thing.

“Every single god-damn thing we do just don’t matter.” Some frustration bleeds into Arthur’s words, and the more he tries to keep the lid twisted down tight, the more it feels like the pressure is rising, threatening to bubble up and over. “Two steps forward and five steps back.”

It’s been a while since the last rain, but the edge of the pasture still feel soft under Arthur’s feet; maybe because he’s trodding it down himself, the chickens long since spooked off to the other side of the chuckwagon, walking in a tight line back and forth, cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

“Least he got a horse, I s’pose.” Kieran mutters, though even he sounds faintly disappointed.

“Wasn’t our horse.” Arthur grunts. Kieran fixes him with a strange look. Arthur shakes his head, turns away from him. “We did all that damn work. Rode across two god-damn states for that horse. Laid low for nothing, now we’re stealing horses the next town over and practically riding ‘em back to camp like we ain’t just left Horseshoe not even three months before...”

Arthur trails off in a muttered stream of faint expletives under his breath. Kieran looks grave, staring out into the field. Branwen, the Arabian and the war horse are all standing side-by-side, tails flicking off the flies swarming and biting in the oppressive summer heat.

The cicadas and the distant sound of barking and Jack’s laughter fills their silence. Arthur can feel sweat rolling down the back of his neck from the crown of his head. Behind him, Kieran sighs. “What’d Dutch say he wants to do with the horse?” He asks, slow to enunciate.

“Wants to sell it.” Arthur’s too angry to be hesitant, pacing. “No papers! She won’t get the price she deserves. They’ll buy her and fake her papers an’ sell her or breed her for five times what we’ll get for her. Maybe more.”

Silence fills in the heated words of his anger. Arthur turns. Kieran is staring off over the lake, downright wounded, cradling his arms across his chest. The sight of him softens him instantly— a funny thing, for a man like him to feel this soft. Kieran’s the one who’s been training her all this time, after all.

Arthur sidles up next to Kieran; he shuffles closer. Not enough to touch, but close enough that Arthur can feel his presence at his side.

“We don’t got a choice.” Arthur says, his voice low and dangerously gentle.

“I know,” Kieran mumbles, glancing at Arthur. His eyebrows are knit together tight in thought. “Never said otherwise.”

Arthur holds his tongue. Kieran hadn’t, but he can see it in his expression. He doesn’t want to give her up. And truthfully, he doesn’t, either. Pain in the absolute ass that she is.

His cigarette has burnt down too far, almost to the end, and he tosses it to the ground. In the silence, Arthur pulls out his pack and lights another one. He takes a long drag, pulling it from his lips on the exhale. He nudges Kieran’s tightly wrapped arms with his elbow; Kieran takes the proffered cigarette, overly careful, Arthur can only assume, on account of how much he’s touching Arthur’s hand as he passes it over.

—

They need to sell the horse. That’s it. They have one too many; there’s no need for another that’s too small for the wagons and wont pull any loads besides. She is a beautiful horse, even with that kind of temperament. She’d make a pretty dollar off some sucker.

Clay and Clive would usually buy someone of her caliber in a heartbeat. Arthur’s seen the kinds of papers they make for horses like her. She’d get top dollar, all glossy-coat and perfect stance. They’d fudge her personality, call her fiery. Sort of the way Dutch had sold Hosea on taking John in; he’s got personality, he’s not feral, just a hair wild and ripe for molding.

Arthur supposes they’re too old, too bothered with keeping themselves afloat to take in anything close to wild anymore. Even the one and only O’Driscoll they’ve ever taken under their wing was the most docile one Arthur could have ever roped from a horse.

But Clay and Clive took the Braithwaite horses and haven’t been back to their post since. Of course, they have to take the time to sell the horses that were brought, lie low until suspicion dies down. But it leaves them in a predicament. It’s the only horse fence anyone in the gang knows. Even if they had returned by now, Arthur’s not sure if he can stomach selling her to them, knowing the kind of money they’d get in return.

“We could go north.” Arthur offers.

“Emerald?” Kieran clarifies.

They pass slow through the underbrush between Clemen’s Point and the main road, careful of the roots growing thick underfoot that could twist a horses’ ankle to a guaranteed death. The Arabian, her reins held in Arthur’s hands, follows side-by-side with his warhorse where the clearings permit; otherwise, she inches on in front, behind Branwen.

“Maybe.” Sean dealt in wagons, which often included horses, but those weren’t his focus; Belgians and shires didn’t command any price point past whatever they pulled. Emerald itself was a working ranch. They didn’t raise race horses.

“What about in Valentine? Mr. Levosh?” Kieran ventures.

Arthur hums in thought, voicing it more to let Kieran know he’s considering. Kieran lets him ponder in relative silence, trotting by his side.

“Well,” He hesitates, “He knows she’s wild.”

Kieran clicks his tongue. “True enough.”

“So really, beauty as she is, it’d be the same as any other ranch.”

“Why do you care?” Kieran asks. Arthur shoots him a look, and Kieran clears his throat, “I mean... about the price. You ain’t get to keep any share of it, do you?”

Arthur hadn’t asked. He had assumed some of it, but— that depended on how little they got. “I don’t know. Suppose we both deserve a cut.”

“Right. If the Count— or—“ Kieran smiles wryly at himself, “The former Count, if she gets anything.” They fall into silence, walking the horses south on the path towards Rhodes. They’ll have to pick up some supplies, either way, but maybe there would be something posted at the train station; some request for horses, a nearby buyer looking for an Arabian.

“Speaking of names—“ Kieran nods at Arthur’s warhorse, “does yours have one?”

“What?” Arthur pats the side of his horse’s neck, “Him? Nah. Not yet. I don’t name them until I figure one out that suits ‘em.” It had taken him a full year of riding before Boadicea had been christened as such; it fit her fiery temper. “And most of the names I’d give this stubborn bastard ain’t polite to call in public.”

Kieran laughs, shakes his head. “Aw, he ain’t that bad.”

“He’s not the best, either.” Arthur smirks, “How’d you name Branwen?”

“Well... it’s from a story my ma read me, when I was real little. Just sad fairy tales, from what I can remember,” Kieran smiles, pats Branwen’s side, and he’s talking more to him than Arthur at this point, his voice tending high, “But it’s a pretty name for a pretty boy, huh?”

Arthur chuckles good-naturedly, and though Kieran’s eyes flit over and his face goes a little red, he smiles shyly back.

It’s fair out, not as hot and humid as it has been. Rhodes is busy but not crowded, easy to maneuver their horses through among the parade of wagons and people. If he was as stupid as Dutch thought they were, he’d suggest selling the Arabian back to the Braitwaithes; they just lost one, after all. The Grays don’t deal in horses. And all of the smaller farms are aligned with either family.

There's no notices posted at the station bulletin board for horses, and a cursory ask around does nothing to assuage Arthur's nagging feeling that this sale was going to be more trouble than its worth.

They sit side-by-side on a bench in the train station, passing a cigarette back and forth. Close in a friendly way, though Arthur keeps catching the eye of Alden moodily brooding from between the ticket booth's bars. "We can try the city?" Kieran offers, "Saint Denis?" The name is destroyed in Kieran's mouth, hard consonants. Arthur likes the sound of it better that way, anyhow. 

"I hate cities." Arthur scowls, and when he slouches back in his seat their knees knock together. Kieran doesn't move, so Arthur doesn’t shy away, either, leaving them touching. "You ever been?"

"Naw. Heard it's bigger than anything in the West, though."

"Cryin' shame."

"I ain't a city man myself," Kieran mumbles, and then more to himself, "Though, I wouldn't mind sleepin' a little less rough more often."

Arthur makes a mental note to find Kieran a spare bedroll when he can; there has to be some beat up carpet sitting in the back of the girl's wagon, something tucked away in Strauss' forcibly made acquisitions. He's not sure if anyone will let him bunk under their tent when it rains, but-- wasn't right for him to be left out like that. Arthur nearly flicks the butt into a nearby spittoon, but Kieran takes it from his fingers before he can, stamping it out against the arm of the bench and placing it in his breast pocket. 

They leave the train station. Rhodes being another dead end, they pull the horses from the troughs and set on their way again. South, towards Saint Denis. With the town behind them, they cross the tracks. Kieran makes a small noise of recognition in the back of his throat. Arthur follows his line of sight.

“Give a man a fish.” Arthur mutters under his breath, gaze settling over a familiarly hunched form.

“Huh.” Kieran frowns.

“Same beggar we saw ‘fore our little meeting the other day.”

"I know..." As they slowly approach, Kieran lowers his voice, "Seems harmless enough."

Arthur grunts in reply.

It's no doubt the same man as before; he is wearing the same rags, dirt still smeared across his face, his voice and cadence the same: “Spare a penny for a blind man?” He shakes his cup back and forth, like habit, even the pattern of the change tingling familiar.

Arthur doesn’t know what overcomes him. It can’t be because he’s riding with Kieran; he’s not trying to impress him the way he might a lady, and besides, he hasn’t even around any women in need of impressing. Him running down that man’s horse up near Valentine when they took the girls into town had been another mild act of uncharacteristic charity; maybe he’s going soft, his head boiled to mush in the sun.

He slows his warhorse; Branwen and the Arabian follow.

“Here.” Arthur mutters, leaning down to drop a quarter into the tin cup. It echoes, and the blind man’s face breaks out into a toothsome smile.

“What a generous man you are,” The man says, inching forward, “More than you realize.” His horse shifts, tail flicking.

Arthur snorts, turning his reins to spur the warhorse into walking again, “Sure.”

“I tell thee.” Quicker than Arthur would think someone of his age could move, the beggar snatches Arthur’s wrist in a brutal grip. “Bethink yourself before taking possession of another man’s horse. For not all will go willingly.”

Arthur wrenches his hand back from the man’s startling grasp. Under him, his horse nickers in surprise. His grip is weak and easily broken, but Arthur can strangely feel it still, rubbing at the clammy skin between his glove and cuff. It’s wet and warm where the touch still lingers from the humidity. If he was younger, he would have yelled at him; might have even hit him back for touching him so. Instead, Arthur glares down at the blind man, spits: “Well, too late for that.”

Kieran’s smile is uneasy, too off-put to appreciate the irony of the supposed prophecy.

“C’mon,” Arthur turns his back, as if the old man wasn’t there at all, “We need to get going.”

The horses seem just as eager to move. Even with turning away, Arthur swears he can still feel the old man’s stare at his back. The first glance over his shoulder is cursory; the second, when he sees nothing, is a sudden whirling in his saddle, enough to stop the horse with the confusing motion of his body and legs.

“You see that?”

“What?”

“That beggar...” His voice trails off in confusion; Kieran turns too, glancing around. Strange. He had seemed lame with his hunch and the heavy way he had leaned onto his cane.

Arthur snorts. “Nothin’.” He shakes his head. Being duped stung less when he was expecting it, and the older he got, the less it personally mattered to his own ego. He usually had an eye for young masquerading as old; God only knows how many times they pulled the same on unsuspecting others in his years running with the gang. (Though now they had their own genuine old man to pull off these sorts of things, something Arthur loved to point out to Hosea, much to his annoyed amusement.)

"Alright, nothin'," They're close enough that Kieran can reach over and nudge Arthur. His hand is warm against his arm, searing through his jacket, even in the heat. Though the sun is starting to set now in Lemoyne, a smoldering orange-purple on the horizon, vibrant against the late summer grass. 

“Should’ve stayed in Rhodes. At the inn...” Arthur begins, trailing off.

“Nah,” Kieran says, “Better not to bring attention. Like you said.”

It’s true, Arthur doesn’t want to get into some petty squabble with some Southern sons of Lemoyne over a sweating glass of whisky. Much easier to retire trail-side as the sky starts to darken. They could push themselves to make further ground, but why bother? The horses find a grassy area to graze as they set up the tent, start a fire. Kieran brushes them down after the day on the dusty road. He pays particular attention to the Arabian, murmuring quiet, happy things as Arthur pokes at the fire. He doesn’t want to snoop. But he hears him murmur things like “There you go, girl,” with a soft smile.

The night is warm still, perfect temperature to shuck their coats and roll up their sleeves. They’re far enough away from the road not to catch the sounds of travelers passing, but the brush is loud with tree frogs and cicadas croaking throughout the lightning-bug lit night. Saddles propped on the logs behind them, Kieran and Arthur lounge together around the fire. They share warm swigs of whiskey over the fire between them both. And even though they’re not that far from the trail, they share kisses too in the open air, trailing hands that intertwine.

Arthur climbs into the tent first, his hips burning with Kieran’s fingertips not far behind. The fire outside is fat with all the wood they had time to gather, throwing long shadows and just enough light that Kieran doesn’t insist on lighting the lamp in the tent. Arthur always prefers it darker, besides; embarrassment curling low in his gut in a way Kieran Duffy cannot ever seem to fathom. He’s been beaten to the point of prideless through his life, and yet he settles against Arthur with a ease and confidence that Arthur’s sure he’ll never have. A belief in not only them but his right to have something so soft, so sweet.

Arthur reckons his fear of it curdling is what makes their kisses so sour on his tongue sometimes, but he can’t let that go. The ever-looming fear of losing, yet again, because Arthur Morgan does not deserve fingers stroking up his belly and lips pressed in the thatch of hair across his chest. Kieran seems to sense it, like a horse to be shushed before it bucks, murmuring whispered words against his skin so sweet Arthur throws an arm over his face to keep his blush from being seen in the dark.

Kieran strips with such a keen lack of self-awareness— an easy confidence, and Arthur finds himself tongue-tied to describe what he feels for him in the moment, can barely parse the words hours later in front of the fire when he’s throwing more kindling in to keep it burning. He brought a tin of vaseline, of course, though he always does for all of its many uses on the trail, not under any presumptions. Arthur keeps his arm thrown over his face, and Kieran guides his other hand by the wrist, rocks back against his slick fingers.

“Let me know...” Arthur’s voice is rough, muffled under the sleeve of his work-shirt, unbuttoned and barely worn.

“S’good,” Kieran fills in, so Arthur doesn’t have to say, drawn tight like a bow beneath his fingers. “Arthur,” With his eyes closed, Arthur swears he can hear him swallow, gasp a desperate huff of breath as Arthur curls his fingers, “Please—“

It feels like their own world, with the canvas above them, the heat of their bodies further warming the small space they’ve managed to shove two bedrolls and two grown men into. Arthur groans open-mouthed against the skin of Kieran’s shoulder, bites down when he gets too loud.

Outside, all three side-by-side, the horses flick their tails to ward away the mosquitos. Arthur checks the shadow of them against the tent before he falls asleep. He is too bone-weary to worry about tomorrow, to write; he is quietly thankful for that, and for the sleeping form of Kieran molded against the crook of his body.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am slowly but surely responding to comments. You guys leave such nice detailed ones it takes me a bit to write something back, bc I want to respond w the same effort, so please excuse me for the time taken ;u; I try to respond to all of them before I post a new chapter but I’ve had this sitting for a week and wanted to get it out
> 
> I would also recommend subscribing to th story; I took some time to write ahead, so the time between chapters shouldn’t be so long going foreword, but yknow just in case!
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!! :) tumblr @hello-imasalesman


	4. spreads the burning sand

The next morning, Arthur wakes early, and alone. Kieran is already outside sitting around the smoldering fire from yesterday. He looks cold, much smaller than the frame draped over his bones, though perks almost immediately at the rustling of the tent flaps. 

“Mornin’.”

Arthur ducks his head in a nod. “Mornin’.” His voice croaks and scratches with just-woken disuse. Kieran smiles. In the early dawn light, everything looks soft and smudged. Kieran especially, with his hat held in-between his knees, his hair framing his face in messy tangles. The fire burns low, a steady stream of smoke curling from it. 

“How’d you sleep?” Arthur asks, scratching at his beard.

Kieran hums with amusement, “Well enough.”

Arthur settles in on the log next to him, groaning as he sits down. He’s a little achy, nothing new, throwing his arms in a spine-popping stretch over his head, yawning with the motion. When he blinks his eyes open, Kieran’s watching him, his face a little flushed.

“Yeah?”

“Nothin’.” Kieran snorts and turns his face. Arthur subtly adjusts the hem of his shirt that crept up with the stretch back over his stomach. “Made coffee.” He points out, which is good, because even with the pot sitting at the edge of the fire at his feet, Arthur hadn't noticed.

They finish the coffee together, and they each chew on some jerky stashed away in their saddles as a quick breakfast. If they get back on the road early, they’ll surely make it into St. Denis by the time the sun sets. And with it being the city and all, if a saloon all the way up in the shit-kicker town of Valentine stayed open at all sorts of hours, Arthur’s sure that new fully-electric city will have some decent grub at any indecent hour. If they can stave their hunger until then, other than maybe an apple shared between them and the horses, they would make it before the sun set over the bayou.

By the time Arthur’s torn down the tent and stamped out the fire, Kieran has the saddles packed and the horses tacked. They’re a smooth operation, the two of them, hardworking in tandem.

“We should make it no later than supper time,” Arthur explains, hauling himself up onto his warhorse; Kieran mounts Branwen in turn, and clicks his tongue to his teeth, the Arabian trotting obediently behind. 

“Sounds good.” Kieran nods thoughtfully, leading the way back to the road with his knees urging Branwen to walk, “Would like to be out of the swamps sooner than later, on account of the roads and alligators and all.” Arthur pulls his map from his knapsack. He’s curiously watching Arthur as he tries to steady his map, braced against swaying neck of his horse trotting under him. “Thinkin’ there’s any shortcut?”

“Naw.” Arthur purses his lips as he squints at the map, “Though we oughta keep up a good pace to begin with. Get past these Grays and Braitwaithes early morning, when not a lot of folks are out.”

“I don’t think...” Kieran swallows, as if suddenly realizing someone could actually recognize them. They had shot a good many men, but there were many more they didn’t just trying to escape the Braithwaites’ property with all of the horses in tow. His smile nervously falters. “Well. Smart thinking.”

“As a precaution.” Arthur says slowly. He’s not that worried. He can’t be, or he’d drive himself mad, with all the things he should and ought to worry about. If he worried about all the men who wanted to kill him, of which Arthur's sure there's too many to even count, he wouldn't be able to live with all of the time that would take. Which seemed to ruin the whole point of not letting those bastards put a bullet through his skull in the first place. 

“Yeah. Precaution.” 

Kieran at least seems trusting in his plans, which is a welcome change from John’s usual smart ass quips or Sean offering his own idiotic two-cents.

If anything, it's easy talking to Kieran. Nothing fancy, like the way Hosea and especially Dutch would try and prompt him into all sorts of debates of logic, and no undercurrent of rivalry that always ran like a live wire beneath most of his interactions with John. (Not that Arthur didn't tease Kieran, but it was different, different than how it had been even back at Horseshoe when it was only half-teasing, and mostly threatening.) It was just-- easy. The roads are quiet around this time of the morning, and unusually quieter still, though Arthur would not complain. It gives them the room to walk with all three horses side-by-side.

"You think we’ll find someone in St. Denis to fake her papers? Buy her at a decent price, at least?”

“I don’t doubt it.” Arthur says, “It’s a big city.”

“Yeah,” Kieran sounds thoughtful. “Maybe we could sell her to someone nice. Like a horse for a lady’s carriage.”

Arthur laughs shortly, glancing at the Arabian trotting obediently by their sides, “You think that sounds nice?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Kieran frowns, “But it’s probably easier than being with people like us. Getting shot at.”

Arthur looks down at his own war horse thoughtfully. Maybe this one would, but the Arabian? She’d nearly leapt out of the stall at Levosh’s stable when they came to retrieve her the morning after they boarded in Valentine. “She’s still wild. Think she’d hate being cooped up in stables like that. Only taken out to trot with some blinders on. Never being run..” Arthur trails off, “I know I’d hate it.”

“Didn’t think about it like that...” Kieran mumbles. "Got a team comin' up behind us, anyhow."

They ease the horses over and off the road before Arthur turns around to confirm, and by that point he can hear the hoofbeats. It's a six horse team, nearly too big for the dirt roads of Lemoyne, but judging from the size and character of the carriage they're pulling it must be heading to St. Denis as well. Fancy folk like them weren't heading to some backwater town. 

The driver tips his cap towards them as they pass. "Thank you kindly!" He shouts over the rattle of the wheels and the noise of the horses. Arthur tilts his hat in response. Heavy velvet curtains are drawn over the windows, fully obscuring anyone or anything inside. It sticks out in the lush greenery of Lemoyne in the summer; a decadent dark cherry wood carriage, gilded and carved to within an inch of its life. Arthur tries not to ogle too much, but Kieran's eyes wont seem to leave it as it passes. As soon as they have the room, Kieran is angling Branwen back onto the road again.

They have the horses fall back, slowing down just enough that they fall out of earshot of the driver.

“Six horse team.” Arthur mentions idly.

“Mmhmm. Awful nice.” Kieran says, and then breathes in, a hesitance. When he continues, his voice is a touch quieter. “Seem tired, though. You can, uh— you can tell, the way their heads are hanging, the mud on their legs. They’ve been run for a while.”

Arthur watches Kieran. His eyes are still focused on the carriage— the horses especially with a critical eye, tilting his chin up as he takes them in. And now that Kieran’s said it, he can see it too, the way the beasts are drooping in the oppressive heat, their steps not as high as they should be. “Too much horsepower. Much too fast for a war horse.” Kieran concludes, glances under his lashes towards Arthur’s right, where the Arabian is trotting next to his horse, looking possibly diminutive. “But...”

Arthur can follow his train of thought, letting out an incredulous snort. “If I didn’t know any better, Mr. Duffy...” Arthur says lowly, just loud enough for Kieran to hear, “I’d say you were considerin’ robbing those fine, upstanding folk.”

Kieran huffs, his face going a little red as he looks up towards the sky. “I was in a gang before you an’ the O’Driscolls, you know.” He reminds him, "Military, too."

Arthur grunts. He remembers. Doesn’t mean he thinks Kieran did much more than what he does now, tending the horses and whatnot. 

But he can handle a gun. Shot that O’Driscoll dead at Sixpoint, even though Arthur figures that was more a case of right place at the right time rather than skill. Kieran is still looking skyward, off-road, anywhere now but Arthur or the carriage. 

“You ever pull a stagecoach?” Arthur finally prompts.

Kieran chews at his bottom lip.

“I’m takin’ that as a no?”

“All I’m sayin’ is," Kieran replies, rushed, "Is that’s a real fancy looking stagecoach.” He pauses to adjust the brim of his hat over his eyes, “An’ I’m a quick leaner.”

A much more saner voice in Arthur says that this is a fool’s folly. But the design carved into the back of the carriage is so ornate it draws the eyes, let alone what they have stored in its interior, safe from the muck and mud of the road; patrons laden with jewels, maybe bonds stored under a seat, fine hats worn by aristocratic types of ladies. He’s heard just the feathers in some of those caps are worth more than a good working horse.

Maybe more than a real fine, wild born horse.

“If we do this— if—” Arthur voices his concern, finally, though saying it aloud has already cemented Arthur’s decision, he knows deep in his gut, the way his pulse is already starting to quicken. He twists in his saddle; there’s no-one coming up on the road behind them, and other than the carriage, nobody has passed them in an hour more. They’ve already passed the far edges of the Braithwaite property. It’s all wild country back this way until they hit Lagras.“We do it smart.“

Kieran looks, somehow, both terrified and eager: “W-w-we— we really doing this?”

Arthur tilts his chin, looks down at Kieran, “Cover your face.”

Kieran fumbles to untie his neckerchief. Arthur pulls up the bandanna around his neck over his mouth and nose; it smells like his own sweat that’s been wicked from the back of his neck all day, the dust of the road, a hint of old gunpowder that immediately ratchets Arthur’s nerves higher. He waits for Kieran to wrestle his blue neckerchief around his face, obscuring his features; with that big hat of his, eyes narrowing against the sun beating down, he’d maybe be mistaken as something dangerous and mean. 

Kieran’s hands flinch downwards, towards his hips; his holster. They itch and tremble something awful before he finally glues them to wrap white knuckled around the saddle horn. 

“We go around them.” Arthur grunts, clicks his tongue to his teeth. The Arabian perks and approaches closer to his warhorse. He speaks straightforward and steady, like another man entirely, self-possessed; but if Arthur knew one thing, if he was good at anything, it was how to rob folk. “I take the left, you take the right. Get the carriage to stop as soon as we can, ‘fore the driver or the horses throw it into splinters in a ditch. I want to take that and everything inside of it. And no killing for killing’s sake.”

Arthur does not hesitate; he steels his boots against the stirrup iron, swings his way up and over off of the war horse and heavily onto the Arabian’s back, crossing the gap between the horses. He lands heavily on her back, and for a moment the resultant back and forth stomp and the way her spine itched and shuddered underneath him he surely thought she’d buck him. Many horses would—

But she snorts and pins her ears and settles underneath, pawing at the ground. There’s an anxious energy thrumming in her, as if she somehow knows what’s to come. Arthur lets out an exalted little huff, twisting to look at Kieran.

“You ready?”

“Yeah,” Kieran’s eyes are wide, gaping under his bandanna. “I’m ready.”

Arthur Morgan is no stranger to stagecoach robbery, but he is sure no man could ever quite smother the beating of their heart no matter how many times they ride. As much as he rags on the likes of Bill Williamson and Micah Bell for cooking up barely-cohesive plans, even someone like Trelawny, who looks after every detail with a meticulous eye that rivals Dutch and Hosea, cannot plan for everything. Even the most thoroughly laid out script can go awry. 

It’s his years of experience and pure instinct that always takes Arthur that final stretch, that actually gives him the momentum to move, to begin. Like a pendulum in motion, Arthur spurs the Arabian on with a holler, pressed to her back as she takes off like a gunshot. They split as they approach the back; Arthur takes the left, the thunderous stomp of their hooves causing the curtains to rustle, coach passengers no doubt following their ascent. From inside the cabin comes a strangled yelp. 

Arthur smoothly reaches into his holster, pulling out his revolver, the pearl handle glinting in the sun. “Pull over!” He truly sounds like something otherworldly with that handkerchief pulled over his mouth, projecting his voice over the din of the carriage. “I said stop this coach!”

The driver is an older man, graying and well-bundled despite the warmth of Lemoyne. If he has a gun, he doesn’t reach for it; there’s clear fright behind his coke-bottle eyeglasses as he cracks the reins over the team’s backs.

The hitched horses scream.

But Kieran was right, they are tired, and they're not coordinated, not working together. One of the horses in the rear is going too fast for the one in front of it; another seems to stumble, neighing high and broken. But the Arabian— Arthur, even riding hard without a saddle, is shooting up the side of the road in a ferocious blur, gaining.

Arthur shoots up into the sky. The Arabian whinnies. He rights his gun.

“Stop the god damn coach!”

“Alright, alright, don’t shoot!”

This time, the shot comes close to the driver. There are screams from the carriage; the driver _woahs_ at the team, pulling back on the reins. They’re slowing down now, as much as he can manage a nigh-frenzied team of six horses; Arthur can feel his pulse thrumming, jolting. Better to pull over, to be robbed then face certain death of a carriage overturning or the horses taking them off-path. The team slows, so sudden that the shafts groan and the hitch creaks and clanks; the horses whinny in annoyance and fear. Each step is a barely subdued kick, a jilted shiver, threatening to destroy themselves or the coach entirely before they slow to a halt.

“Please,” The man in the box drops the reins in his lap, quick to raise his hands, “Don’t shoot, listen, I’m unarmed—“

From the other side, Kieran rounds on the carriage with Branwen, grabbing the side of the driver’s box and hauling himself up behind the whip; the man jumps and shouts in fright, though he’s quick to silence as soon he turns around to Kieran pushing a pistol in his face.

“Anything on him?” Arthur hollers. 

“Nothin’ I can see. There’s a gun box under the front, but you ain’t gonna reach for that now, are you, mister?” Kieran asks, his eyes trained steadily on the driver.

With the driver incapacitated, Arthur turns the Arabian with his thighs towards the door of the carriage. “Alright... you folks in there, if you wanna get out alive, I need you to open up that door slow an’ calm an' come out with your hands up.”

There’s a desperate little wail from inside the carriage, clearly a woman's; Arthur steels his glare towards the rustling curtains. "And if you don't come out by the time I count down from three, I'm shooting my way in--"

"We're coming, don't shoot!" A woman shrieks in near hysterics; the door starts to open, and Arthur finds his finger jumping against the trigger, though not with nearly enough force to actually go off. The first one being sent out is clearly shaken, but smart enough to be smart about it, easing the door open with her spotless heels resting against the carriage step. True to her word, she pushes the door open slowly; she’s younger, maybe fresh from a finishing school, and behind her in the gloom of the carriage, there's two others with their hands up and palms out. Another woman, a matronly sort with heavy jewelry, and a man from the looks of it, though he cannot imagine the kind of coward that would send a woman out to a pair of snarling outlaws before his own self. 

He’s had men try to send out the women first, only to try and blow his brains out once they’ve taken Arthur’s guard down, but their hands are empty and trembling. 

“Come on, get out,” Arthur grunts, “All of you.”

Kieran leads the driver around to stand with the passengers. He’s doing a fine enough job of it, pushing his pistol between his shoulder blades to get him to stumble forward. 

“Please,” The man from the carriage speaks, his mustache trembling. His clothes are fine, and the chain of his pocket watch glints across his breast in the sun. “We— take everything, just don’t harm us.”

“Was planning on taking everything. Up to you all if anyone gets hurt in the process.” Arthur quips back, low and threatening, “Now, I need all of you to empty your pockets and purses for my colleague right there.” 

It would be better if they had three people. One to hold the gun, one to order, another to collect everything. To Kieran’s credit, he doesn’t bat an eye, collecting each proffered thing in hand and stuffing them into his pockets as he moves down the line; he has a string of pearls hanging from his back pocket, a dark velvet coin purse tucked against his breast. Arthur rounds on them, dismounting from the Arabian. 

“Jewelry, too. C’mon, we ain’t got all day.”

They’re lucky nobody has crossed by, but they need to get them off the road. Arthur clears his throat to get Kieran’s attention.

“Gonna need you to follow us, nice and steady now, no sudden movements,”

“We’re unarmed!” The elderly woman wails.

“Hurry up!” Kieran shouts, jams a pistol with a trembling hand towards the man, “And— an’ your watch, too, hand it over, I see you trying to hide it with your sleeve.”

They march them in a single file off the road; the younger woman stumbles in her heels in the soft dirt of the pasture. Kieran presses her on with a gun pointed between her vertebrae. As soon as they’re a ways from the road, Arthur motions for Kieran, and they have them kneel on the ground in a line. 

“You mind tying them, Mr. D?”

Kieran pulls a length of rope from his hip, “‘Course, Mr. M.”

Kieran knows his knots on account of working with horses so long; he’s quick and sure with them, looping twice around each of their wrists as Arthur trains his gun between them. The younger woman is silently weeping, tears black with makeup streaming down her face.

“Now,” Arthur swivels, keeps his pistol trained on their heads, “We won’t be long. As long as you stay silent, you’ll live... but if I hear so much as a holler...” Arthur’s voice growls low at the end, and he punctuates his point by letting the muzzle knock into the man’s temple; the gentleman simpers and flinches away. From the corner of his eye, he can feel Kieran’s heavy gaze on him. “Neither of us will hesitate to send each and every one of you to your maker.”

The woman keens out a hopeless wail, the gentleman next to her shuffling close to shush her fervently before Arthur has a chance to retaliate. Arthur isn’t paying attention; across the tops of their heads, Kieran’s caught his gaze, his eyes striking as they peer out from the thin strip of skin showing between his wide hat and bandanna, "Someone will eventually find ya; ain't far from the road. You'll be fine. Heard there hasn't been a panther sighting in a while."

They’re absolutely silent as Kieran and Arthur leave them on the side of the road; the carriage isn’t far off, but the grass is long and overgrown in the summer, and the underbrush hides the four of them behind it. Arthur jams the butt of his pistol into the glistening lock on the boot at back of the carriage once, twice, watching the metal crack and chip until it snapped off.

“Jesus—“ Kieran mumbles, close to Arthur’s ear, peering over his shoulder.

Whistling for his warhorse, Arthur's too preoccupied with the boxes upon boxes branded ‘VANGELICO’ to be distracted by Kieran’s surprised breath ghosting the shell of his ear. He pries open a nailed-down lid with some effort, the corner of the balsa wood splintering; something glitters and shines behind it in the high sun. Arthur and Kieran suck in a simultaneous breath.

There are tangles of gold chains and emerald broaches and real pearl buttons in the dark depths of the boxes. This is more than Arthur has seen in a long time. Who were those people? And with so little protection on these sorts of roads? Though Arthur knows that flagging a carriage with a brigade of hired hands could draw more attention than a single carriage moving through the country. Quickly, Arthur wrenches the rest of the lid off; he shoves handfuls of the jewelry into his knapsack. Kieran pulls his knife out of his pocket, pries open box after box and sifts through the straw padding to pull out the strands of chains and pendants in fistfuls. They make short work of it; they’re a good team, tossing the empty cartons in the bushes, Arthur slamming the lockbox shut as Kieran shoves the last handful into Branwen’s saddlebag. 

Arthur hauls himself up into the driver’s seat, urging the horses to move as soon as the shotgun seat dips and rattles with Kieran’s weight.

Kieran turns to him, “We did it!” Kieran’s voice is hoarse, shout-cracked as he whoops. “We did it!”

“We did, now quit hollering,” Arthur admonishes. Kieran shuts right up, but there’s mirth crinkling at the corners of his eyes, a slight dip of a dimple where the bandanna across his face surely hides a smile. 

Arthur waits until they’re a ways away before pulling his bandanna down to around his neck. Kieran follows suit. He’s bubbling with some sort of energy, vibrating on top of the movement of the stage coach rolling over the dirt roads, the familiar bump and lurch. It’s a nice carriage, though, nicer than their covered wagons, so the ride isn’t all that bad.

But Kieran’s shaking still. From the thrill of it all, maybe, trembling, his arms rattling as he holds his hands in his lap. Rattling off his lap, to reach over and across, slide warm and still shaking against and up Arthur’s thigh. He squeezes him through the stiff fabric of his work jeans, and the muscles in his leg jump underneath; the shock of it nearly makes him jerk the reins up, and the horses snort in irritation.

Arthur pulls the coach over, as far off the path towards the shade as he’s willing to allow it without it being a pain trying to set the wheels back onto the dirt again; the horses are flicking their tails in agitation, having to stand still hitched to their heavy yokes, but Arthur’s not paying them much mind. Kieran half crawls into his lap as soon as the carriage stops, wedges a sharp knee between his legs and grapples him by his suspenders. He kisses him so hard his hat’s almost knocked off. 

“Kieran—“ Arthur groans, muffled against his lips, spit-slick and insistent.

Arthur’s heartbeat is still somewhere behind his temple, louder and faster than it had been when they had chased that stagecoach down. Kieran’s hand presses flat to his chest, as if he can feel it pulsing underneath his rib cage, against his palm. His lips move against Kieran’s, listens to him moan into his open mouth, kissing lewd and loud.

Arthur surges forward. He has to hold onto his own hat with his free hand, the other pushing, pulling Kieran. He always kisses like he’s dying and they are, sort of, eventually. Some of them just hurtling toward it faster than most, though he reckons they are going at a faster clip than most others can manage, and maybe that’s why his hands feel so urgent, rucking underneath Kieran’s shirt, palming at the sweat-slicked flesh of his quivering belly.

Teeth snagging Kieran’s bottom lip, Arthur grabs the back of his neck, listens and feels and tastes the way his moans reverberate out from him, shake through those hollow bird bones of his and leaves Kieran trembling in his lap.

“Arthur—“ Kieran says it half-breathless into his mouth. “Christ alive—“

“C’mon,” All Arthur wants to do is haul Kieran up in the shotgun seat, and— he doesn’t know what from there. Tear him apart. Consume him whole. But the horses are nickering at all of the commotion they’re causing, let alone how badly they must be shaking them from their seat. “In the coach.”

Kieran swallows. “Yeah?”

Arthur jerks his head towards the back. “Don’t make me think twice on this,” Arthur’s rasps. They should be on their way, instead of taking their time to rut like rabbits. But Arthur feels feverish with Kieran’s fingertips pressing against his bare skin in the small spaces they can work their way in; the strip of wrist between his glove and sleeve, the break between his tied handkerchief and the collar of his jacket. 

He swings around to the side, holding onto the top rail. Wrenching the door open, he clambers inside; Kieran follows behind, pulling the plush velvet door closed behind them. There’s windows to the back and side, but they’re heavily masked with curtains, and it drops them into a moody lighting as soon as the door’s closed.

It’s a nice carriage, nicer than anything Arthur’s ever legally or illegally been in; the walls and doors are upholstered in a rich, dark velvet, and the seats are embroidered under his hands. It’s much too nice for them, knowing how much dirt and mud he must be smearing on the floor as he slides back to make room for Kieran. He settles prettily between Arthur’s spread legs, his breath playing hot against Arthur’s skin in the cramped quarters.

“This is what gets your fire going?” Arthur rasps, “Robbin’ folk?”

“Shut up.” Kieran gasps, hips jerking.

“What kind of other things are you into, Kieran Duffy?” He growls lowly, arches upward as Kieran drapes himself over him. “Does home robbery get you in the same way? Or cattle rustlin’?”

“Arthur Morgan, if you don’t shut up and do somethin’ better with that mouth—“ Kieran warns, unconvincingly, as his voice trembles and he grinds his hips down, against the meat of Arthur’s thigh; Arthur has to cant his own to seek friction, and it’s a poor angle for him. There’s too many clothes between them, and so little time.

Arthur fumbles with their button flies; Kieran helps, hands shaking, knuckles bumping. He nearly collapses on top of Arthur when he pulls him out of his pants, smearing precum over his palms, and he grips them both together. 

Kieran gasps and doubles over; his hips thrust into Arthur’s grip, keeping a steady, even beat. With one hand used to brace himself from completely collapsing on top of Arthur, the other is buried in the tied handkerchief around his neck, twitching, pulling— there’s a steadily increasing pressure against his neck where Kieran’s fisting the material tightly. Flushingly, distressingly, Arthur doesn’t find he minds it much— if anything, it sends a little thrill through him, the way he finds himself taking a gulp of breath in against the pressure narrowing his throat, the way he gets a little lightheaded, like he just took in a good lungful of smoke. With every exhale, he can feel his cock pulse,, twitching between Kieran and his palm.

“Arthur,” Kieran pants in his ear, and Arthur’s vision blurs as Kieran’s fingers tighten in his handkerchief, “Arthur, Arthur, _Arthur_ —“

Kieran lets up on his grip on his handkerchief just as his release splatters between Arthur’s knuckles, across his shirt; and Arthur’s breath and vision swim all in one heady rush that has him following soon after, his wrist stuttering in its movement.

Arthur sighs, lets himself catch his breath in the humid carriage as Kieran slumps atop of him. He nearly puts his arm around Kieran, for a moment, before wiping their combined mess in a lazy swipe against the plush underside of the seat. 

“Mr. Morgan...” Kieran murmurs fond. Arthur’s lips curl into a smile.

“Mr. Duffy.” Arthur answers with an amused huff, curls his fingers into Kieran’s hair, near the back of his skull.

All of that adrenaline drains out of him with his release, leaves his body sagging and boneless in the seats. He presses a kiss to Kieran’s temple, murmurs soft noises as Kieran very gently tucks the both of them back into their pants.

“What d’you think,” Kieran says, still a little breathless as he glances to the roof of the carriage, “This, plus everything we got from the lockbox...”

Arthur chuckles, “Let’s not count our eggs before they’ve hatched. But we’ll get this carriage on up to Emerald, see what Sean will pay for it...” 

Arthur stops.

In the distance, he can hear it; the braying of bloodhounds, their siren song raising all the hairs on the back of his neck.

“Shit,” Arthur swears, turns to see Kieran’s face alive with pure panic. They scrabble out the carriage doors, barely coordinated enough in their fear to swing around and leap into the driver’s seat. 

The impact of their weight on the bench spooks the team of horses. Arthur finds himself in shotgun. Kieran fumbles, drops the reins once, twice. Arthur’s the one to whistle for their horses to follow behind as Kieran cracks the reins sharp over their backs. 

"Yah-!"

The six horse team is fast, too fast for these kind of roads, just tamped down dirt edging to mud where it meets the swamp. The roads narrow as they go further into the bayou, the trees pressing in on all sides, hanging heavily in a canopy over their heads that blots out the sky. Behind them on the road are shouts, and barking; Branwen and the Arabian and the warhorse follow behind the carriage, tossing their heads.

This was foolish. They’ve made a mess of things— they’re never going to outrun a team of lawmen in a carriage, Arthur knows this as a fact. They should have abandoned it and mounted their own horses and rode off a ways. They should have— 

“Slow down!” Arthur shouts, “Get these things to slow down!” The trees blur as they drive by, low-hanging branches whipping at them as they pass. In the distance, Arthur can hear shouting, the barking of hounds.

“I can’t,” Kieran’s voice is high and wrecked with fear, gasping, “They won’t—“

They need to jump from the carriage. Get out and abandon it, take their horses and go. But when Arthur twists in the driver’s seat, he realizes the horses are no longer right behind them; the six-horse team is going too fast, careening down the roads even as they start to soften under their hooves. They’re approaching the bayou proper now, just across the river from—

“The bridge—!”

They take it too hard; for a split second, as the wheels transfer from the dirt to the planks, the carriage jolts and Kieran is thrown from his seat, a good few feet off of his rear, and Arthur grapples him by the back of his vest, pulls him down before he’s thrown entirely from the carriage. The horses whinny. 

The carriage takes them down the path, barely carved out between the cypress and white oaks of the swamp. Immediately, the thickness of the trees and the heavy leaves blot out the midday sun. Here, maybe they’ll get lost, amongst the hissing of the swamps, the thickness of the wilderness, if only the horses would slow. Arthur reaches over Kieran, grabbing his hands on the reins and pulling. The horses turn sharply left at the fork in the road, before they can run straight into a monstrously sized red oak; they both shout as the carriage tips, and then rights itself. 

“Arthur!” Kieran screams, eyes wide and pointed skyward.

Arthur looks up.

In the trees, there hangs a noose.

They are going too fast, careening wildly still. Another noose. This time, with a sallow body hanging in its grasp, grey and swollen and swinging in a nonexistent breeze. Standing on the branch above is a man with a painted face, holding a sugarcane machete, and the sight of him standing there makes the whole world stand still for a moment as everything comes into focus.

The nooses, the bodies. The other bodies lurking in the shadows, moving unnaturally through the swamp, converging in on them—

“Kieran—“ Arthur has time to shout before the discharge of multiple guns, loud and thunderous, muzzles flashing in the thick dark of the swamp. The entire stagecoach shudders as the horses stop and rear; the momentum of it causes the entire carriage to pitch forward into the hind quarters of the horses, their screams deafening as Arthur is flung off the wagon seat and overhead into the mud.

And then, darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)  
> Tumblr: @hello-imasalesman
> 
> Planning next chapter to be around February, so the wait on that cliffhanger won’t be (too) long (comments are honestly my lifeblood and inspire me to work faster though)
> 
> Thanks for reading!


End file.
